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COPYRIGHT DEPOSITS 










SELECTED STORIES! 
FROM 
KIPLING 



































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* 







SELECTED STORIES 
FROM 
KIPLING 

EDITED BY 

WILLIAM LYON PHELPS ^ 

LAMPSON PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH 
LITERATURE AT YALE 



GARDEN CITY, N. Y., AND TORONTO 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 

19 21 




COPYRIGHT 

1891 , 1892 , 1893 , 1894 , 1895 , 1896 , 1897 , 1898 , 1899 , 
1900 , 1901 , 1903 , 1904 , 1905 , 1906 , 1907 , 

1909 , 1910 , 1911 , 1912 , 1913 , 1914 , 

1915 , 1916 , 1917 , 1918 , 1919 

BY 

RTJDYARD KIPLING 



DEC 14 1921 


COPYRIGHT, 1921, DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 



PRINTED AT GARDEN CITY, N. Y., U. S. A. 



©CI.A653177 

\\a» . y 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Introduction vii 

The Man Who Would Be King^ 1 

The Drums of the Fore and Aft 40 

The Phantom ’Rickshaw 75 

Wee Willie Winkie ^ 100 

T*he Courting of Dinah ShaUd 112 

The Man Who Wa^ 137 

^Without Benefit of Clergy 7 152 

•The Incarnation of Krishna Mulvaney. . . . 178 

^“Rixki-Tikki-Tavi” 206 

✓ 

•The Brushwood Boy 223 

William the Conqueror 259 

1/ 

“They” 295 

An Habitation Enforced 320 










INTRODUCTION 


Rudyard Kipling 

India is the birthplace of two famous English writers — 
Thackeray came in Calcutta and Kipling in Bombay. The 
latter was born December 30, 1865. Much of his boyhood 
was spent in England; he was formally educated at United 
Services College, Westward Ho, North Devon. From 1882 
to 1889 he was a journalist in India, being assistant editor 
of the Civil and Military Gazette and the Pioneer . In the 
tropics he matured swiftly, publishing his first book, “De- 
partmental Ditties,” at the age of twenty. He has not 
only traveled around the world; he has been a householder 
in Vermont, India, Cape Town, and Sussex. In 1899 he re- 
ceived the degree of D. C. L. from McGill University; in 1907 
the degree of Litt. D. from Durham and from Oxford; the 
same honor came to him in 1908 from Cambridge and in 
1920 from Edinburgh. In 1907 he was awarded the Nobel 
Prize for literature. He has enjoyed a planet-wide reputa- 
tion for more than thirty years, and it is a matter for public 
rejoicing that he is no older than fifty-five. He is a novelist 
of distinction, the foremost living English poet, and a uni- 
versally acknowledged master of the art of writing short 
stories. 

He was formally educated in Devonshire. Where did he 
get his real education? and how did he become a finished 
literary expert before he became a legal man? The answer 
is in one word — genius; but for all that we should like to know 
some details. Kipling has been the subject of countless 
essays, but little is known about his childhood, boyhood, 
youth, and his early ambition. It is apparent from his 

vii 


Vlll 


INTRODUCTION 


published work that he read and studied the poets faith- 
fully — and especially the more original poets, Donne, Emer- 
son, Browning. Quotations from Robert Browning are fairly 
common in the stories, and we know what use is made of him 
in “Stalky and Co.” He must have intensively studied 
the British and American classics outside of school hours. 

As a newspaper man in India, he added to the news of the 
day columns of original scribbling, the real news being — 
though no one suspected it — that the office contained an 
original genius. When he had reached the mature age of 
nineteen, he began to amuse himself with the composition of 
verse; these running rimes attracted general attention; they 
were quoted right and left, and sung with enthusiasm around 
camp-fires. He contracted the disease called by Oliver Wen- 
dell Holmes “lead-poisoning,” and a literary career became 
for him the only career possible. Collecting his fugitive 
verse in a volume bound like a Government report, he sent 
around reply post-cards for cash orders, in the manner made 
famous by Walt Whitman; the result was more than gratify- 
ing, and these humble-looking books command fancy prices 
to-day. 

His fame came out of the East like a great dawn, and now 
it is mid-day; everybody who reads anything reads Kipling. 
Many thousands of his readers can quote him by title and 
by text. To use Browning’s phrase, his soul is in men’s 
hearts. His ideas and his drapery of them are part of our 
intellectual furniture. He is the spokesman of the Anglo- 
Saxon race. For although he has traveled everywhere 
he has always been an unalloyed Englishman, carrying his 
English opinions, ideas, manners, clothes, and speech into 
every corner of the earth. Never has there been a wide 
traveler so little affected by foreign people and foreign cus- 
toms. He observes them all with the sharp eye of the born 
journalist, but they are always alien — he always “reports” 
them but never dreams of making anything like concessions. 
Perhaps, after all, there is something normal in all this; we 
never love home so much as when we are away from it. 


INTRODUCTION 


ix 


Kipling judges everybody and everything, even the beasts 
in the jungle, by English standards. His religion, his ethics, 
his ideals, are British, and while they might seem to a cosmo- 
politan Russian or Parisian somewhat limited, they represent 
practical and definite virtues, and show how these virtues 
may be acquired by races less fortunate than that which in- 
herited them. The lesser breeds are without the law, but 
they have the living example. It is characteristic that Kip- 
ling should have quite recently written a poem in defence of 
the old copy-book moralities, which have somehow survived 
the test of time and experience. In the world of conduct 
and in the world of art, Kipling has always stood for stand- 
ards. A writer of extraordinary versatility, he has always 
been true to Form. He has never run after false gods in 
literature, and his adolescence never took the familiar atti- 
tude of rebellion. It is astonishing that a man of such 
splendid imagination should always have had a thoroughly 
disciplined mind. Indeed he seems to have actually loved 
discipline at a time when most young men hate it. A com- 
mon disease of youth is either rebellion or affected cynicism; 
Kipling was always on the side of the schoolmaster, es- 
pecially if the schoolmaster wore a military uniform. Per- 
haps his preternaturally sharp eyes taught him the lessons 
of experience without any personal expenses. In literature 
his surging vitality found abundant room for expression 
within the traditional boundaries of verse and prose; he 
achieved eminence in verse not by singing out of tune, but 
by singing in tune better than his rivals; he achieved eminence 
in prose not by shock and self -advertising, but by excellence 
in English composition. 

Everyone has noticed the analogy between the early work 
of Kipling and that of Bret Harte. Kipling noticed it him- 
self. The American saw his opportunity as a frontiersman 
in literature, and became a sectional writer. He revealed 
to sophisticated city-bred readers the passion, humor, and 
pathos in the lives of the rough miners of California, giving 
to his sketches that touch of nature which makes the whole 


X 


INTRODUCTION 


world kin. Kipling saw his chance with the British soldier 
in India. The light shining in the “Plain Tales” was as a new 
star rising in the East, and every wise man followed it. Many 
of us can remember the ardor and enthusiasm with which, 
some thirty years ago, we read these revelations of humanity, 
so fresh and so strange. For some time Kipling was identi- 
fied with Tommy Atkins, as Bret Harte had been with the 
American gold-diggers. There are officers who assert that 
Kipling reported the private soldier exactly as he was, but 
a higher compliment comes from General Sir George Young- 
husband, who, in his book, “A Soldier’s Memories,” says, 
“I had never heard the words or expressions that Rudyard 
Kipling’s soldiers used. Many a time did I ask my brother 
officers whether they had ever heard them. No, never. But 
sure enough, a few years after the soldiers thought, and 
talked, and expressed themselves exactly as Rudyard Kip- 
ling had taught them in his stories. Rudyard Kipling made 
the modern soldier. Other writers have gone on with the 
good work, and they have between them manufactured the 
cheery, devil-may-care, lovable person enshrined in our 
hearts as Thomas Atkins. Before he had learned from read- 
ing stories about himself that he, as an individual, also pos- 
sessed the above attributes, he was mostly ignorant of the 
fact. My early recollections of the British soldier are of a 
bluff, rather surly person, never the least jocose or light- 
hearted except perhaps when he had too much beer.” 

I call this a higher achievement than correct reporting, 
because if the statement is true, it means that a literary man 
transformed the soldier from what he was to what the author 
thought he ought to be. He made an idealized portrait real. 

It is interesting to speculate on the effect of Kipling’s 
writings on the British soldier in the World War. There can 
be no doubt that the rank and file were not exactly what they 
would have been if Kipling had never written, and the 
difference is to the credit of the man-of-letters, just as the 
French fighting-men owed more than the world has yet 
realized to the author of “Cyrano de Bergerac.” 


INTRODUCTION 


xi 


Bret Harte survives by reason of his early work. Kipling 
went on into other fields of successful endeavor, which 
include not only the various activities of life in city and 
country, in England and in India, but reach out into the 
world of Spirit. In “They” we found a new Kipling. Just 
as in the “ Plain Tales,” he had drawn our attention to the far 
horizon, so here he drew our intent gaze beyond the horizon, 
and set us all looking through the gates of Death. As usual, 
Kipling was well ahead of the fashion. Had he written 
“They” in 19 19, he would have been in the mode. But at 
the time he wrote it, he was doing pioneer work. In other 
words, he is always original. 

My favorite Kipling story is “The Man Who Would Be 
King.” More than a quarter of a century has elapsed since 
I first read this amazing tale, but the first impression has 
lasted through the layers placed over it by other books and 
other authors. The big man with the big red beard and the 
predatory imagination — the strange country with the white 
men and white women — the astounding coup d’etat that 
elevated Daniel and Peachey not merely to kings but to 
gods — the fatal yet natural disaster brought into this para- 
dise by woman — Daniel out on the lonely rope — Daniel 
falling twenty thousand miles, turning over and over — the 
crucifixion of Peachey — his return with the head of his Chief 
— who can ever forget such men and such deeds? After all, 
Daniel was a King and a God — to Peachey. 

Although Kipling is a humorist, his finest work is the 
reverse of comic. His humor is ordinarily unlike conventional 
British humor. [He, who is so English in everything else, 
is not English in this. His humorous scenes depend mainly 
on exaggeration and incongruity, which are American rather 
than British characteristics. The dominant note in Kipling’s 
idea of mirth is buffoonery, which is sometimes the refuge of 
a serious man from serious problems. Such stories as “The 
Incarnation of Krishna Mulvaney,” “Brugglesmith,” “The 
Village That Voted the Earth Was Flat,” are at the farthest 
possible remove from the typical English humor of Charles 


INTRODUCTION 


xii 

Lamb. The printed page seems to laugh out loud. Kipling is 
funny enough in his own way; but it is not always the most 
subtle way, and it is perhaps fortunate that his literary repu- 
tation depends, not on his humor, but on his imagination. 

We may follow the growth of his reputation by reading 
chronologically the references to him in the Letters of Henry 
James. The first occurs in 1890, when, in writing to Steven- 
son, James playfully alludes to his “ rival.” (And indeed 
I can remember when High School Graduation Essays began 
to change from Tennyson and Browning to Stevenson and 
Kipling.) Stevenson was fifteen years older, but the two men 
became famous in the late eighties. Henry James is writing 
to his friend in Samoa, on March 21, 1890, about the possi- 
bility of the Scotsman’s return to Europe. “The other two 
questions (the eternal Irish and Rudyard Kipling) aren’t in 
it. (We’ll tell you all about Rudyard Kipling — your nascent 
rival; he has killed one immortal — Rider Haggard; the star 
of the hour, aged 24, and author of remarkable Anglo-Indian 
and extraordinarily observed barrack life — Tommy Atkins — 
tales.”) The next year he writes that the only news in litera- 
ture “continues to be the infant monster of a Kipling.” 
Later Henry James, while never losing his wonder at the 
display of force, became less and less sympathetic, probably 
because Kipling seemed to be proceeding in the direction 
contrary to that desired by the American, who loved com- 
plexity above all things. Writing to Grace Norton on Christ- 
mas Day, 1897, he says, “he has come steadily from the less 
simple in subject to the more simple — from the Anglo-Indians 
to the natives, from the natives to the Tommies, from the 
Tommies to the quadrupeds, from the quadrupeds to the fish, 
and from the fish to the engines and screws.” 

So far as this criticism is inclusive, it is just; I have never 
liked Kipling’s stories of ships, machinery, and locomotives, 
so much as I have admired his work that deals with human 
beings. But Kipling has not lacked the ability to surprise 
the world with a recrudescence of power. Like Antseus, he 
seems to gain additional strength by touching the earth. In 


INTRODUCTION 


xm 


“An Habitation Enforced,” he produced a story that must 
have pleased Henry James. It is subdued in tone and style; 
the light, instead of glaring, is tender and diffused; the shad- 
ing of character, in both action and dialogue, is subtle. It 
is one more convincing proof of the fact that no formula has 
ever yet been found that will successfully define or cover the 
work of Kipling, for he defies classification. 

Fortunately, in dealing with a literary artist, we are not 
concerned with any discussion of his political opinions. We 
are fortunately not concerned with politics at all. Politics 
are ephemeral, art is eternal. We are concerned here with 
Kipling’s skill in writing short stories, of which the collection 
in this volume ought to supply sufficient illustration. He is 
perhaps better at depicting action than character, which is 
one reason why his short stories are finer than his novels; 
even his most beloved characters are men of action. They 
are hard, clean, lean, the incarnation of orderly energy. 
Their minds are as neat as their lodgings, not empty, but 
certainly swept. There is, as a rule, not much room in their 
tidy brains for any “nonsense,” which makes “The Brush- 
wood Boy” such a charming exception. His heroes have an 
English straightforwardness, even when they are natives. 
His noblest animals are models of English efficiency. The 
mongoose, in that extraordinary narrative, “Rikki-Tikki- 
Tavi,” does his job thoroughly, like an Englishman. I 
wonder what Kipling thinks of the men and women in the 
novels of Dostoevski? 

Yet, curiously enough, this apostle of Hard Work, who 
has through his pen lived a vicarious life of toil and fighting, 
is the author of beautiful and sympathetic stories of children. 
In producing these tales, he is like a tanned soldier home on 
leave, who takes the children on his knee, and listens to their 
prattle and laughter and questions with an avuncular interest. 
He treats children with dignity, and reports them accurately, 
like the expert he is; and has a strong man’s chivalrous 
respect for their fragility and innocence. 

It has not been easy to select out of so many tales a baker’s 


XIV 


INTRODUCTION 


dozen which shall best represent both variety and excellence, 
but I have undertaken the task, first, because, I have been 
asked to do it, and second, because it ought to be done. As 
it is impossible to please everybody, I have finally considered 
myself as an average reader, and tried to please no one else. 
Kipling is a standard author; he belongs to English litera- 
ture; he is already a classic. It is high time that there should 
be a collection of his tales in one volume, making his repre- 
sentative work accessible to all. Many ardent Kiplingites 
will regret, some with wonder, some with anger, that more of 
their own favorites do not appear. Now if it were a ques- 
tion of simple addition, it would be easy to gratify their 
wishes. But our space is limited; for every additional story, 
one now in this volume would have to be cast out. Which 
shall it be? that tale of love and death, “Without Benefit of 
Clergy”? that reverberating echo of the past, “The Man Who 
Was”? that picture of passion and jealousy, “Dinah Shadd”? 
that colossal farce, “The Incarnation of Krishna Mulvaney”? 
that stirring battle scene, “The Drums of the Fore and Aft”? 
that mingling of the real and the ideal, “The Brushwood 
Boy”? that chilly horror, “The Phantom ’Rickshaw”? that 
picture of the irresistible child, “Wee Willie Winkie”? that 
picture of drudgery glorified by womanly tenderness, “William 
the Conqueror”? that revelation of the brain of an animal, 
“Rikki-Tikki-Tavi”? that exploration of the spirit world, 
“They”? that quiet picture of civilizing influences, “An 
Habitation Enforced”? that masterpiece of flaming imagina- 
tion, “The Man Who Would Be King”? 

Finding it impossible to part with any of these, I include 
them all. 

Wm. Lyon Phelps. 

Yale University, 

29, April, 1921. 


SELECTED STORIES 
FROM 
KIPLING 







SELECTED STORIES FROM 
KIPLING 

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 
( 1889 ) 

Brother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if he be found worthy. 

The Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conduct of life, and 
one not easy to follow. I have been fellow to a beggar again 
and again under circumstances which prevented either of us 
finding out whether the other was worthy I have still to be 
brother to a Prince, though I once came near to kinship with 
what might have been a veritable King and was promised 
the reversion of a Kingdom — army, law-courts, revenue and 
policy all complete. But, to-day, I greatly fear that my 
King is dead, and if I want a crown I must go hunt it for my- 
self. 

The beginning of everything was in a railway train upon 
the road to Mhow from Ajmir. There had been a Deficit in 
the Budget, which necessitated traveling, not Second-class, 
which is only half as dear as First-class, but by Intermediate, 
which is very awful indeed. There are no cushions in the 
Intermediate class, and the population are either Intermedi- 
ate, which is Eurasian, or native, which for a long night 
journey is nasty, or Loafer, which is amusing though in- 
toxicated. Intermediates do not buy from refreshment- 
rooms. They carry their food in bundles and pots, and buy 
sweets from the native sweetmeat-sellers, and drink the 
roadside water. That is why in hot weather Intermediates 

l 


2 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


are taken out of the carriages dead, and in all weathers are 
most properly looked down upon. 

My particular Intermediate happened to be empty till I 
reached Nasirabad, when a big black-browed gentleman in 
shirt-sleeves entered, and, following the custom of Inter- 
mediates, passed the time of day. He was a wanderer and a 
vagabond like myself, but with an educated taste for whiskey. 
He told tales of things he had seen and done, of out-of-the- 
way corners of the Empire into which he had penetrated, and 
of adventures in which he risked his life for a few days’ food. 

* “If India was filled with men like you and me, not knowing 
more than the crows where they’d get their next day’s ra- 
tions, it isn’t seventy millions of revenue the land would be 
paying — it’s seven hundred millions,” said he; and as I looked 
at his mouth and chin I was disposed to agree with him. 

We talked politics — the politics of Loaferdom that sees 
things from the underside where the lath and plaster is not 
smoothed off — and we talked postal arrangements because 
my friend wanted to send a telegram back from the next 
station to Ajmir, the turning-off place from the Bombay to 
the Mhow line as you travel westward. My friend had no 
money beyond eight annas which he wanted for dinner, 
and I had no money at all, owing to the hitch in the Budget 
before mentioned. Further, I was going into a wilderness 
where, though I should resume touch with the Treasury, 
there were no telegraph offices. I was, therefore, unable to 
help him in any way. 

“ We might threaten a Station-master, and make him send 
a wire on tick,” said my friend, “but that’d mean inquiries 
for you and for me, and I ’ve got my hands full these days. 
Did you say you were traveling back along this line within 
any days?” 

“Within ten,” I said. 

“Can’t you make it eight?” said he. “Mine is rather 
urgent business.” 

“I can send your telegram within ten days if that will serve 
you,” I said. 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 


3 


“I couldn’t trust the wire to fetch him now I think of it. 
It’s this way. He leaves Delhi on the 23rd for Bombay. 
That means he’ll be running through Ajmir about the night 
of the 23rd.” 

“But I’m going into the Indian Desert,” I explained. 

“Well and good,” said he. “You’ll be changing at Mar- 
war Junction to get into Jodhpore territory — you must 
do that — and he’ll be coming through Marwar Junction 
in the early morning of the 24th by the Bombay Mail. Can 
you be at Marwar Junction on that time? ’Twon’t be 
inconveniencing you because I know that there’s precious 
few pickings to be got out of these Central India States — even 
though you pretend to be correspondent of the Backwoods- 
man” 

“Have you ever tried that trick?” I asked. 

“Again and again, but the Residents find you out and then 
you get escorted to the Border before you’ve time to get your 
knife into them. But about my friend here. I must give 
him a word o’ mouth to tell him what’s come to me or else 
he won’t know where to go. I would take it more than kind 
of you if you was to come out of Central India in time to 
catch him at Marwar Junction, and say to him: ‘He has 
gone South for the week.’ He’ll know what that means. 
He’s a big man with a red beard, and a great swell he is. 
You’ll find him sleeping like a gentleman with all his luggage 
round him in a Second-class apartment. But don’t you be 
afraid. Slip down the window and say: ‘He has gone 
South for the week,’ and he’ll tumble. It’s only cutting 
your time of stay in those parts by two days. I ask you as a 
stranger — going to the West,” he said with emphasis. 

“Where have you come from?” said I. 

“From the East,” said he, “and I am hoping that you will 
give him the message on the Square — for the sake of my 
Mother as well as your own.” 

Englishmen are not usually softened by appeals to the 
memory of their mothers; but for certain reasons, which will 
be fully apparent, I saw fit to agree. 


4 


STORIES FRoM KIPLING 


“It’s more than a little matter,” said he, “and that’s why 
I asked you to do it — and now I know that I can depend on 
you doing it. A Second-class carriage at Marwar Junction, 
and a red-haired man asleep in it. You’ll be sure to re- 
member. I get out at the next station, and I must hold on 
there till he comes or sends me what I want.” 

“I’ll give the message if I catch him,” I said, “and for the 
sake of your Mother as well as mine I’ll give you a word of 
advice. Don’t try to run the Central India States just now 
as the correspondent of the Backwoodsman. There’s a real 
one knocking about here, and it might lead to trouble.” 

“Thank you,” said he simply, “and when will the swine be 
gone? I can’t starve because he’s ruining my work. I 
wanted to get hold of the Degumber Rajah down here about 
his father’s widow, and give him a jump.” 

“What did he do to his father’s widow, then?” 

“Filled her up with red pepper and slippered her to death 
as she hung from a beam. I found that out myself and I’m 
the only man that would dare going into the State to get 
hush-money for it. They’ll try to poison me, same as they 
did in Chortumna when I went on the loot there. But you’ll 
give the man at Marwar Junction my message?” 

He got out at a little roadside station, and I reflected. I 
had heard, more than once, of men personating correspon- 
dents of newspapers and bleeding small Native States with 
threats of exposure, but I had never met any of the caste 
before. They lead a hard life, and generally die with great 
suddenness. The Native States have a wholesome horror of 
English newspapers, which may throw light on their peculiar 
methods of government, and do their best to choke correspon- 
dents with champagne, or drive them out of their mind with 
four-in-hand barouches. They do not understand that 
nobody cares a straw for the internal administration of 
Native States so long as oppression and crime are kept within 
decent limits, and the ruler is not drugged, drunk, or diseased 
from one end of the year to the other. They are the dark 
places of the earth, full of unimaginable cruelty, touching the 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 


5 


Railway and the Telegraph on one side, and, on the other, the 
days of Harun-al-Raschid. When I left the train I did busi- 
ness with divers Kings, and in eight days passed through 
many changes of life. Sometimes I wore dress-clothes and 
consorted with Princes and Politicals, drinking from crystal 
and eating from silver. Sometimes I lay out upon the ground 
and devoured what I could get, from a plate made of leaves, 
and drank the running water, and slept under the same 
rug as my servant. It was all in the day’s work. 

Then I headed for the Great Indian Desert upon the 
proper date, as I had promised, and the night Mail set me 
down at Marwar Junction, where a funny little, happy-go- 
lucky, native-managed railway runs to Jodhpore. The 
Bombay Mail from Delhi makes a short halt, at Marwar. 
She arrived as I got in, and I had just time to hurry to her 
platform and go down the carriages. There was only one 
Second-class on the train. I slipped the window and looked 
down upon a flaming red beard, half covered by a railway rug. 
That was my man, fast asleep, and I dug him gently in the 
ribs. He woke with a grunt and I saw his face in the light of 
the lamps. It was a great and shining face. 

“Tickets again?” said he. 

“No,” said I. “I am to tell you that he is gone South for 
the week. He has gone South for the week!” 

The train had begun to move out. The red man rubbed his 
eyes. “He has gone South for the week,” he repeated. “Now 
that’s just like his impjdence. Did he say that I was to give 
you anything? ’Cause I won’t.” 

“He didn’t,” I said and dropped away, and watched the 
red lights die out in the dark. It was horribly cold because 
the wind was blowing off the sands. I climbed into my own 
train — not an Intermediate carriage this time — and went to 
sleep. 

If the man with the beard had given me a rupee I should 
have kept it as a memento of a rather curious affair. But 
the consciousness of having done my duty was my only 
reward. 


6 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


Later on I reflected that two gentlemen like my friends 
could not do any good if they foregathered and personated 
correspondents of newspapers, and might, if they black- 
mailed one of the little rat-trap states of Central India or 
Southern Rajputana, get themselves into serious difficulties. 
I therefore took some trouble to describe them as accurately 
as I could remember to people who would be interested in 
deporting them: and succeeded, so I was later informed, in 
having them headed back from the Degumber borders. 

Then I became respectable, and returned to an Office 
where there were no Kings and no incidents outside the 
daily manufacture of a newspaper. A newspaper office 
seems to attract every conceivable sort of person, to the 
prejudice of discipline. Zenana-mission ladies arrive, and 
beg that the Editor will instantly abandon all his duties to 
describe a Christian prize-giving in a back-slum of a per- 
fectly inaccessible village; Colonels who have been over- 
passed for command sit down and sketch the outline of a 
series of ten, twelve, or twenty-four leading articles on 
Seniority versus Selection; missionaries wish to know why 
they have not been permitted to escape from their regular 
vehicles of abuse and swear at a brother-missionary under 
special patronage of the editorial We; stranded theatrical 
companies troop up to explain that they cannot pay for their 
advertisements, but on their return from New Zealand or 
Tahiti will do so with interest; inventors of patent punkah- 
pulling machines, carriage couplings and unbreakable swords 
and axle-trees call with specifications in their pockets and 
hours at their disposal; tea-companies enter and elaborate 
their prospectuses with the office pens; secretaries of ball- 
committees clamor to have the glories of their last dance 
more fully described; strange ladies rustle in and say: “I 
want a hundred lady’s cards printed at once , please,” which 
is manifestly part of an Editor’s duty; and every dissolute 
ruffian that ever tramped the Grand Trunk Road makes it 
his business to ask for employment as a proof-reader. And 
all the time, the telephone-bell is ringing madly, and Kings 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 


7 


are being killed on the Continent, and Empires are saying — 
“You’re another,” and Mister Gladstone is calling down 
brimstone upon the British Dominions, and the little black 
copy -boys are whining, “kaa-pi chay-ha-yeh ” (copy wanted) 
like tired bees, and most of the paper is as blank as Modred’s 
shield. 

But that is the amusing part of the year. There are 
six other months when none ever come to call, and the 
thermometer walks inch by inch up to the top of the glass, 
and the office is darkened to just above reading-light, and 
the press-machines are red-hot to touch, and nobody writes 
anything but accounts of amusements in the Hill-stations or 
obituary notices. Then the telephone becomes a tinkling 
terror, because it tells you of the sudden deaths of men and 
women that you knew intimately, and the prickly heat 
covers you with a garment, and you sit down and write: “A 
slight increase of sickness is reported from the Khuda Janta 
Khan District. The outbreak is purely sporadic in its nature, 
and, thanks to the energetic efforts of the District authorities, 
is now almost at an end. It is, however, with deep regret 
we record the death,” etc. 

Then the sickness really breaks out, and the less recording 
and reporting the better for the peace of the subscribers. 
But the Empires and the Kings continue to divert themselves 
as selfishly as before, and the Foreman thinks that a daily 
paper really ought to come out once in twenty-four hours, 
and all the people at the Hill-stations in the middle of 
their amusements say: “Good gracious! Why can’t the 
paper be sparkling? I’m sure there’s plenty going on up 
here.” 

That is the dark half of the moon, and, as the ad- 
vertisements say, “Must be experienced to be appreci- 
ated.” 

It was in that season, and a remarkably evil season, that 
the paper began running the last issue of the week on Satur- 
day night, which is to say Sunday morning, after the custom 
of a London paper. This was a great convenience, for im- 


8 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


mediately after the paper was put to bed, the dawn would 
lower the thermometer from 96° to almost 84° for half an 
hour, and in that chill — you have no idea how cold is 84° on 
the grass until you begin to pray for it — a very tired man 
could get off to sleep ere the heat roused him. 

One Saturday night it was my pleasant duty to put the 
paper to bed alone. A King or< courtier or a courtesan or 
a Community was going to die or get a new Constitution, or 
do something that was important on the other side of the 
world, and the paper was to be held open till the latest 
possible minute in order to catch the telegram. 

It was a pitchy black night, as stifling as a June night 
can be, and the loo , the red-hot wind from the westward, 
was booming among the tinder-dry trees and pretending 
that the rain was on its heels. Now and again a spot of 
almost boiling water would fall on the dust with the flop of a 
frog, but all our weary world knew that was only pretence. 
It was a shade cooler in the press-room than the office, so I 
sat there, while the type ticked and clicked, and the night- 
jars hooted at the windows, and the all but naked compositors 
wiped the sweat from their foreheads, and called for water. 
The thing that was keeping us back, whatever it was, would 
not come off, though the loo dropped and the last type was 
set, and the whole round earth stood still in the choking heat, 
with its finger on its lip, to wait the event. I drowsed, and 
wondered whether the telegraph was a blessing, and whether 
this dying man, or struggling people, might be aware of the 
inconvenience the delay was causing. There was no special 
reason beyond the heat and worry to make tension, but, as the 
clock-hands crept up to three o’clock and the machines spun 
their fly-wheels two and three times to see that all was in 
order, before I said the word that would set them off, I could 
have shrieked aloud. 

Then the roar and rattle of the wheels shivered the quiet 
into little bits. I rose to go away, but two men in white 
clothes stood in front of me. The first one said : “ It’s him ! ” 
The second said: “So it is!” And they both laughed 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 


9 


almost as loudly as the machinery roared, and mopped their 
foreheads. “We seed there was a light burning across the 
road and we were sleeping in that ditch there for coolness, and 
I said to my friend here, The office is open. Let’s come along 
and speak to him as turned us back from the Degumber 
State,” said the smaller of the two. He was the man I had 
met in the Mhow train, and his fellow was the red-bearded 
man of Marwar Junction. There was no mistaking the eye- 
brows of the one or the beard of the other. 

I was not pleased, because I wished to go to sleep, 
not to squabble with loafers. “What do you want?” I 
asked. 

“Half an hour’s talk with you, cool and comfortable, in 
the office,” said the red-bearded man. “We’d like some 
drink — the Contrack doesn’t begin yet, Peachey, so you 
needn’t look — but what we really want is advice. We don’t 
want money. We ask you as a favor, because we found out 
you did us a bad turn about Degumber State.” 

I led from the press-room to the stifling office with the 
maps on the walls, and the red-haired man rubbed his hands. 
“ That’s something like,” said he. “ This was the proper shop 
to come to. Now, Sir, let me introduce to you Brother 
Peachey Carnehan, that’s him, and Brother Daniel Dravot, 
that is me , and the less said about our professions the better, 
for we have been most things in our time. Soldier, sailor, 
compositor, photographer, proof-reader, street-preacher, 
and correspondent of the Backwoodsman when we thought 
the paper wanted one. Carnehan is sober, and so am I. 
Look at us first, and see that’s sure. It will save you cutting 
into my talk. We’ll take one of your cigars apiece, and you 
shall see us light up.” 

I watched the test. The men were absolutely sober, so 
I gave them each a tepid whiskey and soda. 

“Well and good,” said Carnehan of the eyebrows, wiping 
the froth from his moustache. “Let me talk now, Dan. 
We have been all over India, mostly on foot. We have 
been boiler-fitters, engine-drivers, petty contractors, and 


10 STORIES FROM KIPLING 

all that, and we have decided that India isn’t big enough for 
such as us.” 

They certainly were too big for the office. Dravot’s beard 
seemed to fill half the room and Carnehan’s shoulders the 
other half, as they sat on the big table. Carnehan continued : 
“The country isn’t half worked out because they that gov- 
erns it won’t let you touch it. They spend all their blessed 
time in governing it, and you can’t lift a spade, nor chip a 
rock, nor look for oil, nor anything like that without all the 
Government saying — ‘Leave it alone, and let us govern.’ 
Therefore, such as it is, we will let it alone, and go away to 
some other place where a man isn’t crowded and can come 
to his own. We are not little men, and there is nothing 
that we are afraid of except Drink, and we have signed a 
Contrack on that. Therefore , we are going away to be 
Kings.” 

“ Kings in our own right,” muttered Dravot. 

“Yes, of course,” I said. “You’ve been tramping in the 
sun, and it’s a very warm night, and hadn’t you better 
sleep over the notion? Come to-morrow.” 

“Neither drunk nor sunstruck,” said Dravot. “We have 
slept over the notion half a year, and require to see Books 
and Atlases, and we have decided that there is only one 
place now in the world that two strong men can Sar-a- 
whack. They call it Kafiristan. By my reckoning it’s the 
top right-hand corner of Afghanistan, not more than three 
hundred miles from Peshawar. They have two-and-thirty 
heathen idols there, and we’ll be the thirty-third and fourth. 
It’s a mountaineous country, and the women of those parts 
are very beautiful.” 

“But that is provided against in the Contrack,” said 
Carnehan. “Neither Woman nor Liqu-or, Daniel.” 

“And that’s all we know, except that no one has gone 
there, and they fight, and in any place where they fight a 
man who knows how to drill men can always be a King. 
We shall go to those parts and say to any King we find — 
‘D’you want to vanquish your foes?’ and we will show him 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 


11 


how to drill men; for that we know better than anything else. 
Then we will subvert that King and seize his Throne and 
establish a Dy -nasty.” 

“You’ll be cut to pieces before you’re fifty miles across 
the Border,” I said. “You have to travel through Afghan- 
istan to get to that country. It’s one mass of mountains 
and peaks and glaciers, and no Englishman has been through 
it. The people are utter brutes, and even if you reached 
them you couldn’t do anything.” 

“That’s more like,” said Carnehan. “If you could think 
us a little more mad we would be more pleased. We have 
come to you to know about this country, to read a book 
about it, and to be shown maps. We want you to tell us 
that we are fools and to show us your books.” He turned 
to the book-cases. 

“Are you at all in earnest?” I said. 

“A little,” said Dravot sweetly. “As big a map as you 
have got, even if it’s all blank where Kafiristan is, and any 
books you’ve got. We can read, though we aren’t very 
educated.” 

I uncased the big thirty-two-miles-to-the-inch map of 
India, and two smaller Frontier maps, hauled down volume 
INF-KAN of the Encyclopedia Britannica , and the men 
consulted them. 

“See here!” said Dravot, his thumb on the map. “Up to 
Jagdallak, Peachey and me know the road. We was there 
with Roberts’ Army. We’ll have to turn off to the right at 
Jagdallak through Laghmann territory. Then we get among 
the hills — fourteen thousand feet — fifteen thousand — it will 
be cold work there, but it don’t look very far on the map.” 

I handed him Wood on the Sources of the Oxus. Carnehan 
was deep in the Encyclopedia. 

“They’re a mixed lot,” said Dravot reflectively; “and it 
won’t help us to know the names of their tribes. The more 
tribes the more they’ll fight, and the better for us. From 
J agdallak to Ashang. H ’mm ! ’ ’ 

“But all the information about the country is as sketchy 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


n 

and inaccurate as can be,” I protested. “No one knows 
anything about it really. Here’s the file of the United Ser- 
vices' Institute. Read what Belle w says.” 

“Blow Bellew!” said Carnehan. “Dan, they’re a stinkin’ 
lot of heathens, but this book here says they think they’re 
related to us English.” 

I smoked while the men pored over Raverty , Wood , the 
maps, and the Encyclopaedia. 

“There is no use your waiting,” said Dravot politely. 
“It’s about four o’clock now. We’ll go before six o’clock 
if you want to sleep, and we won’t steal any of the papers. 
Don’t you sit up. We’re two harmless lunatics, and if you 
come to-morrow evening down to the Serai we’ll say good-bye 
to you.” 

“You are two fools,” I answered. “You’ll be turned 
back at the Frontier or cut up the minute you set foot in 
Afghanistan. Do you want any money or a recommenda- 
tion down-country? I can help you to the chance of work 
next week.” 

“Next week we shall be hard at work ourselves, thank 
you,” said Dravot. “It isn’t so easy being a King as it 
looks. When we’ve got our Kingdom in going order we’ll 
let you know, and you can come up and help us to govern it.” 

“Would two lunatics make a Contrack like that?” said 
Carnehan, with subdued pride, showing me a greasy half- 
sheet of notepaper on which was written the following. I 
copied it, then and there, as a curiosity — 

This Contract between me and you persuing witnesseth 
in the name of God — Amen and so forth. 

(One) That me and you will settle this matter together; 
i. e., to he Kings of Kafiristan. 

(Two) That you and me will not , while this matter is 
being settled , look at any Liquor , nor any Woman 
black , white , or brown , so as to get mixed up with 
one or the other harmful. 


13 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 

(Three) That we conduct ourselves with Dignity and 
Discretion , and if one of us gets into trouble the 
other will stay by him. 

Signed by you and me this day. 

Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan. 

Daniel Dravot. 

Both Gentlemen at Large. 

“There was no need for the last article,” said Carnehan, 
blushing modestly; “but it looks regular. Now you know 
the sort of men that loafers are — we are loafers, Dan, until we 
get out of India — and do you think that we would sign a 
Contrack like that unless we was in earnest? We have kept 
away from the two things that make life worth having.” 

“You won’t enjoy your lives much longer if you are going 
to try this idiotic adventure. Don’t set the office on fire,” I 
said, “and go away before nine o’clock.” 

I left them still poring over the maps and making notes on 
the back of the “Contrack.” “Be sure to come down to the 
Serai to-morrow,” were their parting words. 

The Kumharsen Serai is the great four-square sink of 
humanity where the strings of camels and horses from the 
North load and unload. All the nationalities of Central Asia 
may be found there, and most of the folk of India proper. 
Balkh and Bokhara there meet Bengal and Bombay, and try 
to draw eye-teeth. You can buy ponies, turquoises, Persian 
pussy-cats, saddle-bags, fat-tailed sheep and musk in the 
Kumharsen Serai, and get many strange things for nothing. 
In the afternoon I went down to see whether my friends in- 
tended to keep their word or were lying there drunk. 

A priest attired in fragments of ribbons and rags stalked 
up to me, gravely twisting a child’s paper whirligig. Behind 
him was his servant bending under the load of a crate of mud 
toys. The two were loading up two camels, and the in- 
habitants of the Serai watched them with shrieks of laughter. 

“The priest is mad,” said a horse-dealer to me. “He is 
going up to Kabul to sell toys to the Amir. He will either be 


14 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


raised to honor or have his head cut off. He came in here 
this morning and has been behaving madly ever since.’ 5 

“The witless are under the protection of God,” stammered 
a flat-cheeked Usbeg in broken Hindi. “They foretell 
future events.” 

“Would they could have foretold that my caravan would 
have been cut up by the Shinwaris almost within shadow of 
the Pass !” grunted theEusufzai agent of a Rajputana trading- 
house whose goods had been diverted into the hands of 
other robbers just across the Border, and whose misfortunes 
were the laughing-stock of the bazar. “Ohe, priest, whence 
come you and whither do you go?” 

“From Roum have I come,” shouted the priest, waving 
his whirligig; “from Roum, blown by the breath of a hundred 
devils across the sea ! O thieves, robbers, liars, the blessing of 
Pir Khan on pigs, dogs, and perjurers! Who will take the 
Protected of God to the North to sell charms that are never 
still to the Amir? The camels shall not gall, the sons shall 
not fall sick, and the wives shall remain faithful while they 
are away, of the men who give me place in their caravan. 
Who will assist me to slipper the King of the Roos with a 
golden slipper with a silver heel? The protection of Pir 
Khan be upon his labors!” He spread out the skirts of his 
gaberdine and pirouetted between the lines of tethered 
horses. 

“There starts a caravan from Peshawar to Kabul in twenty 
days, Huzrut,” said the Eusufzai trader. “My camels go 
therewith. Do thou also go and bring us good-luck.” 

“I will go even now!” shouted the priest. “I will depart 
upon my winged camels, and be at Peshawar in a day ! Ho ! 
Hazar Mir Khan,” he yelled to his servant, “drive out the 
camels, but let me first mount my own.” 

He leaped on the back of his beast as it knelt, and, turning 
round to me, cried: “Come thou also, Sahib, a little along 
the road, and I will sell thee a charm — an amulet that shall 
make thee King of Kafir is tan.” 

Then the light broke upon me, and I followed the two 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 


15 


camels out of the Serai till we reached open road and the 
priest halted. 

“What d’you think o’ that?” said he in English. 
“Carnehan can’t talk their patter, so I’ve made him my 
servant. He makes a handsome servant. ’Tisn’t for noth- 
ing that I’ve been knocking about the country for fourteen 
years. Didn’t I do that talk neat? We’ll hitch on to a 
caravan at Peshawar till we get to Jagdallak, and then we’ll 
see if we can get donkeys for our camels, and strike into 
Kafir is tan. Whirligigs for the Amir, O Lor! Put your 
hand under the camel-bags and tell me what you feel.” 

I felt the butt of a Martini, and another and another. 

“Twenty of ’em,” said Dravot placidly. “Twenty of ’em 
and ammunition to correspond, under the whirligigs and the 
mud dolls.” 

“Heaven help you if you are caught with those things!” 
I said. “A Martini is worth her weight in silver among the 
Pathans.” 

“Fifteen hundred rupees of capital — every rupee we could 
beg, borrow, or steal — are invested on these two camels,” 
said Dravot. “We won’t get caught. We’re going through 
the Khaiber with a regular caravan. Who’d touch a poor 
mad priest?” 

“Have you got everything you want?” I asked, overcome 
with astonishment. 

“Not yet, but we shall soon. Give us a memento of your 
kindness, Brother. You did me a service, yesterday, and that 
time in Marwar. Half my Kingdom shall you have, as the 
saying is.” I slipped a small charm compass from my watch 
chain and handed it up to the priest. 

“Good-bye,” said Dravot, giving me hand cautiously. 
“It’s the last time we’ll shake hands with an Englishman 
these many days. Shake hands with him, Carnehan,” he 
cried, as the second camel passed me. 

Carnehan leaned down and shook hands. Then the camels 
passed away along the dusty road, and I was left alone to 
wonder. My eye could detect no failure in the disguises. 


16 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


The scene in the Serai proved that they were complete to the 
native mind. There was just the chance, therefore, that 
Carnehan and Dravot would be able to wander through 
Afghanistan without detection. But, beyond, they would 
find death — certain and awful death. 

Ten days later a native correspondent giving me the news 
of the day from Peshawar, wound up his letter with : “ There 

has been much laughter here on account of a certain mad 
priest who is going in hjs estimation to sell petty gauds and 
insignificant trinkets which he ascribes as great charms to H. 
H. the Amir of Bokhara. He passed through Peshawar and 
associated himself to the Second Summer caravan that goes 
to Kabul. The merchants are pleased because through 
superstition they imagine that such mad fellows bring good- 
fortune.” 

The two, then, were beyond the Border. I would have 
prayed for them, but, that night, a real King died in Europe, 
and demanded an obituary notice. 

* * * * * * 4s 

The wheel of the world swings through the same phases 
again and again. Summer passed and winter thereafter, and 
came and passed again. The daily paper continued and I 
with it, and upon the third summer there fell a hot night, a 
night-issue, and a strained waiting for something to be 
telegraphed from the other side of the world, exactly as had 
happened before. A few great men had died in the past two 
years, the machines worked with more clatter, and some of 
the trees in the Office garden were a few feet taller. But that 
was all the difference. 

I passed over to the press-room, and went through just such 
a scene as I have already described. The nervous tension 
was stronger than it had been two years before, and I felt the 
heat more acutely. At three o’clock I cried, “Print off,” 
and turned to go, when there crept to my chair what was 
left of a man. He was bent into a circle, his head was sunk 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 17 

between his shoulders, and he moved his feet one over the 
other like a bear. I could hardly see whether he walked or 
crawled — this rag-wrapped, whining cripple who addressed 
me by name, crying that he was come back. “Can you 
give me a drink?” he whimpered. “For the Lord’s sake, 
give me a drink!” 

I went back to the office, the man following with groans of 
pain, and I turned up the lamp. 

“Don’t you know me?” he gasped, dropping into a chair, 
and he turned his drawn face, surmounted by a shock of gray 
hair, to the light. 

I looked at him intently. Once before had I seen eye- 
brows that met over the nose in an inch-broad black band, 
but for the life of me I could not tell where. 

“I don’t know you,” I said, handing him the whiskey. 
“What can I do for you?” 

He took a gulp of the spirit raw, and shivered in spite of 
the suffocating heat. 

“I’ve come back,” he repeated; “and I was the King of 
Kafiristan — me and Dravot — crowned Kings we was! In 
this office we settled it — you setting there and giving us the 
books. I am Peachey — Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan, and 
you’ve been setting here ever since — O Lord!” 

I was more than a little astonished, and expressed my feel- 
ings accordingly. 

“It’s true,” said Carnehan, with a dry cackle, nursing 
his feet, which were wrapped in rags. “True as gospel. 
Kings we were, with crowns upon our heads — me and Dravot 
— poor Dan — oh, poor, poor Dan, that would never take 
advice, not though I begged of him!” 

“Take the whiskey,” I said, “and take your own time. 
Tell me all you can recollect of everything from beginning to 
end. You got across the border on your camels, Dravot 
dressed as a mad priest and you his servant. Do you 
remember that?” 

“I ain’t mad — yet, but I shall be that way soon. Of 
course I remember. Keep looking at me, or maybe my 


18 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


words will go all to pieces. Keep looking at me in my eyes 
and don’t say anything.” 

I leaned forward and looked into his face as steadily 
as I could. He dropped one hand upon the table and I 
grasped it by the wrist. It was twisted like a bird’s claw, 
and upon the back was a ragged, red, diamond-shaped 
scar. 

“No, don’t look there. Look at me” said Carnehan. 
“That comes afterwards, but for the Lord’s sake don’t dis- 
track me. We left with that caravan, me and Dravot 
playing all sorts of antics to amuse the people we were with. 
Dravot used to make us laugh in the evenings when all the 
people was cooking their dinners — cooking their dinners, and 
. . . what did they do then? They lit little fires with 

sparks that went into Dravot’s beard, and we all laughed — 
fit to die. Little red fires they was, going into Dravot’s big 
red beard — so funny.” His eyes left mine and he smiled 
foolishly. 

“You went as far as Jagdallak with that caravan,” I said 
at a venture, “after you had lit those fires. To Jagdallak, 
where you turned off to try to get into Kafiristan.” 

“No, we didn’t neither. What are you talking about? 
We turned off before Jagdallak, because we heard the roads 
was good. But they wasn’t good enough for our two camels 
— mine and Dravot’s. When we left the caravan, Dravot 
took off all his clothes and mine too, and said we would be 
heathen, because the Kafirs didn’t allow Mohammedans to 
talk to them. So we dressed betwixt and between, and such 
a sight as Daniel Dravot I never saw yet nor expect to see 
again. He burned half his beard, and slung a sheep-skin 
over his shoulder, and shaved his head into patterns. He 
shaved mine, too, and made me wear outrageous things to 
look like a heathen. That was in a most mountaineous 
country, and our camels couldn’t go along any more because 
of the mountains. They were tall and black, and coming 
home I saw them fight like wild goats — there are lots of 
goats in Kafiristan. And these mountains, they never keep 


19 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 

still, no more than the goats. Always fighting they are, and 
don’t let you sleep at night.” 

“Take some more whiskey,” I said very slowly. “What 
did you and Daniel Dravot do when the camels could go no 
further because of the rough roads that led into Kafiristan?” 

“What did which do? There was a party called Peachey 
Taliaferro Carnehan that was with Dravot. Shall I tell 
you about him? He died out there in the cold. Slap from 
the bridge fell old Peachey, turning and twisting in the 
air like a penny whirligig that you can sell to the Amir. — 

No; they was two for three ha’pence, those whirligigs, or I 
am much mistaken and woeful sore. . . . And then 

these camels were no use, and Peachey said to Dravot — 
‘For the Lord’s sake let’s get out of this before our heads are 
chopped off,’ and with that they killed the camels all among 
the mountains, not having anything in particular to eat, but 
first they took off the boxes with the guns and the ammuni- 
tion, till two .men came along driving four mules. Dravot up 
and dances in front of them, singing — ‘Sell me four mules.* 
Says the first man — ‘ If you are rich enough to buy, you are 
rich enough to rob ; ’ but before ever he could put his hand to 
his knife, Dravot breaks his neck over his knee, and the 
other party runs away. So Carnehan loaded the mules with 
the rifles that was taken off the camels, and together we 
starts forward into those bitter cold mountaineous parts, 
and never a road broader than the back of your hand.” 

He paused for a moment, while I asked him if he could 
remember the nature of the country through which he had 
journeyed. 

“I am telling you as straight as I can, but my head isn’t 
as good as it might be. They drove nails through it to make 
me hear better how Dravot died. The country was moun- 
taineous and the mules were most contrary, and the in- 
habitants was dispersed and solitary. They went up and 
up, and down and down, and that other party, Carnehan, 
was imploring of Dravot not to sing and whistle so loud, for 
fear of bringing down the tremenjus avalanches. But Dravot 


20 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


says that if a King couldn’t sing it wasn’t worth being King, 
and whacked the mules over the rump, and never took no 
heed for ten cold days. We came to a big level valley all 
among the mountains, and the mules were near dead, so we 
killed them, not having anything in special for them or us to 
eat. We sat upon the boxes, and played odd and even with 
the cartridges that was jolted out. 

“Then ten men with bows and arrows ran down that 
valley, chasing twenty men with bows and arrows, and the 
row was tremenjus. They was fair men — fairer than you or 
me — with yellow hair and remarkable well built. Says 
Dravot, unpacking the guns — ‘This is the beginning of the 
business. We’ll fight for the ten men,’ and with that he 
fires two rifles at the twenty men, and drops one of them at 
two hundred yards from the rock where he was sitting. The 
other men began to run, but Carnehan and Dravot sits on 
the boxes picking them off at all ranges, up and down the 
valley. Then he goes up to the ten men that had run 
across the snow too, and they fires a footy little arrow at us. 
Dravot he shoots above their heads and they all falls down 
flat. Then he walks over them and kicks them, and then he 
lifts them up and shakes hands all round to make them 
friendly like. He calls them and gives them the boxes to 
carry, and waves his hand for all the world as though he was 
King already. They takes the boxes and him across the 
valley and up the hill into a pine wood on the top, where there 
was half a dozen big stone idols. Dravot he goes to the 
biggest — a fellow they call Imbra — and lays a rifle and a 
cartridge at his feet, rubbing his nose respectful with his own 
nose, patting him on the head, and saluting in front of it. He 
turns round to the men and nods his head, and says — 
‘That’s all right. I’m in the know too, and all these old 
jim-jams are my friends.’ Then he opens his mouth and 
points down it, and when the first man brings him food, he 
says — ‘No;’ and when the second man brings him food he 
says — ‘No;’ but when one of the old priests and the boss of 
the village brings him food, he says — ‘Yes;’ very haughty. 


21 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 

and eats it slow. That was how we came to our first village, 
without any trouble, just as though we had tumbled from the 
skies. But we tumbled from one of those damned rope- 
bridges, you see and — you couldn’t expect a man to laugh 
much after that?” 

“Take some more whiskey and go on,” I said. “That was 
the first village you came into. How did you get to be 
King?” 

“I wasn’t King,” said Carnehan. “Dravot he was the 
King, and a handsome man he looked with the gold crown 
on his head and all. Him and the other party stayed in that 
village, and every morning Dravot sat by the side of old 
Imbra, and the people came and worshipped. That was 
Dravot’s order. Then a lot of men came into the valley, and 
Carnehan Dravot picks them off with the rifles before they 
knew where they was, and runs down into the valley and up 
again the other side and finds another village, same as the 
first one, and the people all falls down flat on their faces, and 
Dravot says — ‘Now what is the trouble between you two 
villages? ’ and the people points to a woman, as fair as you or 
me, that was carried off, and Dravot takes her back to the 
first village and counts up the dead — eight there was. For 
each dead man Dravot pours a little milk on the ground and 
waves his arms like a whirligig and ‘That’s all right,’ says 
he. Then he and Carnehan takes the big boss of each 
village by the arm and walks them down into the valley, and 
shows them how to scratch a line with a spear right down 
the valley, and gives each a sod of turf from both sides of 
the line. Then all the people comes down and shouts like 
the devil and all, and Dravot says — ‘Go and dig the land, 
and be fruitful and multiply,’ which they did, though they 
didn’t understand. Then we asks the names of things in 
their lingo — bread and water and fire and idols and such, 
and Dravot leads the priest of each village up to the idol, and 
says he must sit there and judge the people, and if anything 
goes wrong he is to be shot. 

“Next week they was all turning up the land in the valley 


22 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


as quiet as bees and much prettier, and the priests heard all 
the complaints and told Dravot in dumb show what it was 
about. ‘That’s just the beginning,’ says Dravot. ‘They 
think we’re Gods.’ He and Carnehan picks out twenty good 
men and shows them how to click off a rifle, and form fours, 
and advance in line, and they was very pleased to do so, and 
clever to see the hang of it. Then he takes out his pipe and 
his baccy-pouch and leaves one at one village, and one at the 
other, and off we two goes to see what was to be done in the 
next valley. That was all rock, and there was a little village 
there, and Carnehan says — ‘send ’em to the old valley to 
plant,’ and takes ’em there and gives ’em some land that 
wasn’t took before. They were a poor lot, and we blooded 
’em with a kid before letting ’em into the new Kingdom. 
That was to impress the people, and then they settled down 
quiet, and Carnehan went back to Dravot who had got into 
another valley, all snow and ice and most mountaineous. 
There was no people there and the Army got afraid, so Dravot 
shoots one of them, and goes on till he finds some people in a 
village, and the Army explains that unless the people wants to 
be killed they had better not shoot their little matchlocks; 
for they had matchlocks. We makes friends with the priest 
and I stays there alone with two of the Army, teaching the 
men how to drill and a thundering big Chief comes across the 
snow with kettle-drums and horns twanging, because he 
heard there was a new God kicking about. Carnehan sights 
for the brown of the men half a mile across the snow and 
wings one of them. Then he sends a message to the Chief 
that, unless he wished to be killed, he must come and shake 
hands with me and leave his arms behind. The Chief comes 
alone first, and Carnehan shakes hands with him and whirls 
his arms about, same as Dravot used, and very much sur- 
prised that Chief was, and strokes my eyebrows. Then 
Carnehan goes alone to the Chief, and asks him in dumb 
show if he had an enemy he hated. ‘I have,’ says the 
Chief. So Carnehan weeds out the pick of his men, and 
sets the two of the Army to show them drill and at the end of 


23 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 

two weeks the men can manoeuvre about as well as Volun- 
teers. So he marches with the Chief to a great big plain on the 
top of a mountain, and the Chief’s men rushes into a village 
and takes it; we three Martinis firing into the brown of the 
enemy. So we took that village too, and I gives the chief a 
rag from my coat and says, ‘Occupy till I come;’ which was 
scriptural. By way of a reminder, when me and the Army 
was eighteen hundred yards away, I drops a bullet near him 
standing on the snow, and all the people falls flat on their 
faces. Then I sends a letter to Dravot wherever he be by 
land or by sea.” 

At the risk of throwing the creature out of train I inter- 
rupted — “How could you write a letter up yonder?” 

“The letter? — Oh! — The letter! Keep looking at me 
between the eyes, please. It was a string-talk letter, that 
we’d learned the way of it from a blind beggar in the Pun- 
jab.” 

I remember that there had once come to the office a 
blind man with a knotted twig and a piece of string which 
he wound round the twig according to some cipher of his 
own. He could, after the lapse of days or hours, repeat the 
sentence which he had reeled up. He had reduced the 
alphabet to eleven primitive sounds; and tried to teach me 
his method, but I could not understand. 

“I sent that letter to Dravot,” said Carnehan; “and told 
him to come back because this Kingdom was growing too 
big for me to handle, and then I struck for the first valley, to 
see how the priests were working. They called the village we 
took along with the Chief, Bashkai, and the first village we 
took, Er-Heb. The priests at Er-Heb was doing all right, 
but they had a lot of pending cases about land to show me, 
and some men from another village had been firing arrows at 
night. I went out and looked for that village, and fired four 
rounds at it from a thousand yards. That used all the 
cartridges I cared to spend, and I waited for Dravot, who had 
been away two or three months, and I kept my people quiet. 

“One morning I heard the devil’s own noise of drums 


24 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


and horns, and Dan Dravot marches down the hill with his 
Army and a tail of hundreds of men, and which was the most 
amazing, a great gold crown on his head. ‘My Gord, 
Carnehan,’ said Daniel, ‘this is a tremenjus business, and 
we’ve got the whole country as far as it’s worth having. I am 
the son of Alexander by Queen Semiramis, and you’re my 
younger brother and a God too! It’s the biggest thing 
we’ve ever seen. I’ve been marching and fighting for six 
weeks with the Army, and every footy little village for fifty 
miles has come in rejoiceful; and more than that, I’ve got the 
key of the whole show, as you’ll see, and I’ve got a crown for 
you! 1 told ’em to make two of ’em at a place called Shu, 
where the gold lies in the rock like suet in mutton. Gold 
I’ve seen, and turquoise I’ve kicked out of the cliffs, and 
there’s garnets in the sands of the river, and there’s a chunk 
of amber that a man brought me. Call up ail the priests and 
here, take your crown.’ 

“One of the men opens a black hair bag, and I slips the 
crown on. It was too small and too heavy, but I wore it for 
the glory. Hammered gold it was — five pound weight, like a 
hoop of a barrel. 

“‘Peachey,’ says Dravot, ‘we don’t want to fight no more. 
The Craft’s the trick so help me!’ and he brings forward that 
same Chief that I left at Bashkai — Billy Fish we called him 
afterwards, because he was so like Billy Fish that drove the 
big tank-engine at Mach on the Bolan in the old days. 
‘Shake hands with him,’ says Dravot, and I shook hands 
and nearly dropped, for Billy Fish gave me the Grip. I said 
nothing, but tried him with the Fellow Craft Grip. He 
answers, all right, and I tried the Master’s Grip, but that was 
a slip. ‘A Fellow Craft he is!’ I says to Dan. ‘Does he 
know the word?’ — ‘He does,’ says Dan, ‘and all the 
priests know. It’s a miracle. The Chiefs and the priests 
can work a Fellow Craft Lodge in a way that’s very like ours, 
and they’ve cut the marks on the rocks, but they don’t 
know the Third Degree, and they’ve come to find out. It’s 
Gord’s Truth. I’ve known these long years that the Afghans 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 


25 


knew up to the Fellow Craft Degree, but this is a miracle. A 
God and a Grand-Master of the Craft am I, and a Lodge in 
the Third Degree I will open, and we’ll raise the head priests 
and the Chiefs of the villages.’ 

“‘It’s against all the law,’ I says, ‘holding a Lodge with- 
out warrant from any one; and you know we never held 
office in any Lodge.’ 

“‘It’s a master-stroke o’ policy,’ says Dravot. ‘It means 
running the country as easy as a four-wheeled bogie on a 
down grade. We can’t stop to inquire now, or they’ll turn 
against us. I’ve forty Chiefs at my heel, and passed and 
raised according to their merit they shall be. Billet these 
men on the villages, and see that we run up a Lodge of some 
kind. The temple of Imbra will do for the Lodge-room. 
The women must make aprons as you show them. I’ll hold 
a levee of Chiefs to-night and Lodge to-morrow. 

“I was fair run off my legs, but I wasn’t such a fool as not 
to see what a pull this Craft business gave us. I showed 
the priests’ families how to make aprons of the degrees, 
but for Dravot’s apron the blue border and marks was made 
of turquoise lumps on white hide, not cloth. We took a great 
square stone in the temple for the Master’s chair, and little 
stones for the officers’ chairs, and painted the black pave- 
ment with white squares, and did what we could to make 
things regular. 

“At the levee which was held that night on the hillside 
with big bonfires, Dravot gives out that him and me were 
Gods and sons of Alexander, and Past Grand-Masters in the 
Craft, and was come to make Kafiristan a country where 
every man should eat in peace and drink in quiet, and 
specially obey us. Then the Chiefs come round to shake 
hands, and they were so hairy and white and fair it was just 
shaking hands with old friends. We gave them names ac- 
cording as they was like men we had known in India — Billy 
Fish, Holly Dilworth, Pikky Kergan, that was Bazar-master 
when I was at Mhow, and so on, and so on. 

“The most amazing miracles was at Lodge next night. 


26 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


One of the old priests was watching us continuous, and I 
felt uneasy, for I knew we’d have to fudge the Ritual, and 
I didn’t know what the men knew. The old priest was 
a stranger come in from beyond the village of Bashkai. The 
minute Dravot puts on the Master’s apron that the girls had 
made for him, the priest fetches a whoop and a howl, and 
tries to overturn the stone that Dravot was sitting on. ‘It’s 
all up now,’ I says. ‘That comes of meddling with the 
Craft without warrant!’ Dravot never winked an eye, not 
when ten priests took and tilted over the Grand-Master’s 
chair — which was to say the stone of Imbra. The priest 
begins rubbing the bottom end of it to clear away the black 
dirt, and presently he shows all the other priests the Master’s 
Mark, same as was on Dravot’s apron, cut into the stone. 
Not even the priests of the temple of Imbra knew it was 
there. The old chap falls flat on his face at Dravot’s feet and 
kisses ’em. ‘Luck again,’ says Dravot, across the Lodge to 
me, ‘ they say it’s the missing Mark that no one could under- 
stand the why of. We’re more than safe now.’ Then he 
bangs the butt of his gun for a gavel and says : ‘ By virtue 

of the authority vested in my by my own right hand and the 
help of Peachey, I declare myself Grand-Master of all Free- 
masonry in Kafiristan in this the Mother Lodge o’ the 
country, and King of Kafiristan equally with Peachey ! ’ At 
that he puts on his crown and I puts on mine — I was doing 
Senior Warden — and we opens the Lodge in most ample form. 
It was a amazing miracle! The priests moved in Lodge 
through the first two degrees almost without telling, as if the 
memory was coming back to them. After that, Peachey 
and Dravot raised such as was worthy — high priests and 
Chiefs of far-off villages. Billy Fish was the first, and 
I can tell you we scared the soul out of him. It was not in 
any way according to Ritual, but it served our turn. We 
didn’t raise more than ten of the biggest men, because we 
didn’t want to make the Degree common. And they was 
clamoring to be raised. 

‘“In another six months,’ says Dravot, ‘we’ll hold another 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 


27 


Communication, and see how you are working.’ Then he 
asks them about their villages, and learns that they was 
fighting one against the other, and were sick and tired of it. 
And when they wasn’t doing that they was fighting with the 
Mohammedans. ‘You can fight those when they come into 
our country,’ says Dravot. ‘Tell off every tenth man of 
your tribes for a Frontier guard, and send two hundred at 
a time to this valley to be drilled. Nobody is going to be 
shot or speared any more so long as he does well, and I know 
that you won’t cheat me, because you’re white people — sons 
of Alexander — and not like common, black Mohammedans. 
You are my people, and by God,’ says he, running off into 
English at the end — ‘I’ll make a damned fine Nation of 
you, or I’ll die in the making!’ 

“I can’t tell all we did for the next six months, because 
Dravot did a lot I couldn’t see the hang of, and he learned 
their lingo in a way I never could. My work was to help the 
people plow, and now and again go out with some of the 
Army and see what the other villages were doing, and make 
’em throw rope-bridges across the ravines which cut up the 
country horrid. Dravot was very kind to me, but when he 
walked up and down in the pine wood pulling that bloody 
red beard of his with both fists I knew he was thinking plans 
I could not advise about, and I just waited for orders. 

“But Dravot never showed me disrespect before the 
people. They were afraid of me and the Army, but they 
loved Dan. He was the best of friends with the priests and 
the Chiefs; but any one could come across the hills with a 
complaint, and Dravot would hear him out fair, and call four 
priests together and say what was to be done. He used to 
call in Billy Fish from Bashkai, and Pikky Kergan from Shu, 
and an old Chief we called Kafuzelum — it was like enough to 
his real name — and hold councils with ’em when there was any 
fighting to be done in small villages. That was his Council of 
War, and the four priests of Bashkai, Shu, Khawak, and 
Madora was his Privy Council. Between the lot of ’em they 
sent me, with forty men and twenty rifles, and sixty men 


28 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


carrying turquoises, into the Ghorband country to buy those 
hand-made Martini rifles, that come out of the Amir’s work- 
shops at Kabul, from one of the Amir’s Herati regiments that 
would have sold the very teeth out of their mouths for 
turquoises. 

“I stayed in Ghorband a month, and gave the Governor 
there the pick of my baskets for hush-money, and bribed the 
Colonel of the regiment some more, and, between the two and 
the tribes-people, we got more than a hundred hand-made 
Martinis, a hundred good Kohat Jezails that’ll throw to 
six hundred yards, and forty manloads of very bad am- 
munition for the rifles. I came back with what I had, and 
distributed ’em among the men that the Chiefs sent in to me 
to drill. Dravot was too busy to attend to those things, 
but the old Army that we first made helped me, and we turned 
out five hundred men that could drill, and two hundred that 
knew how to hold arms pretty straight. Even those cork- 
screwed, hand-made guns was a miracle to them. Dravot 
talked big about powder-shops and factories, walking up and 
down in the pine wood when the winter was coming on. 

“‘I won’t make a Nation,’ says he. ‘I’ll make an Em- 
pire! These men aren’t niggers; they’re English! Look at 
their eyes — look at their mouths. Look at the way they 
stand up. They sit on chairs in their own houses. They’re 
the Lost Tribes, or something like it, and they’ve grown to be 
English. I’ll take a census in the spring if the priests don’t 
get frightened. There must be a fair two million of ’em in 
these hills. The villages are full o’ little children. Two 
million people — two hundred and fifty thousand fight- 
ing men — and all English! They only want the rifles 
and a little drilling. Two hundred and fifty thousand 
men, ready to cut in on Russia’s right flank when she tries for 
India! Peachey, man,’ he says, chewing his beard in great 
hunks, ‘we shall be Emperors — Emperors of the Earth! 
Rajah Brooke will be a suckling to us. I’ll treat with the 
Viceroy on equal terms. I’ll ask him to send me twelve 
picked English — twelve that I know of — to help us govern a 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 


29 


bit. There’s Mackray, Sergeant-pensioner at Segowli — 
many’s the good dinner he’s given me, and his wife a pair of 
trousers. There’s Donkin, the Warder of Tounghoo Jail; 
there’s hundreds that I could lay my hand on if I was in 
India. The Viceroy shall do it for me, I’ll send a man 
through in the spring for those men, and I’ll write for a dis- 
pensation from the Grand Lodge for what I’ve done as 
Grand-Master. That — and all the Sniders that’ll be thrown 
out when the native troops in India take up the Martini. 
They’ll be worn smooth, but they’ll do for fighting in these 
hills. Twelve English, a hundred thousand Sniders run 
through the Amir’s country in driblets — I’d be content with 
twenty thousand in one year — and we’d be an Empire. 
When everything was shipshape, I’d hand over the crown — 
this crown I’m wearing now — to Queen Victoria on my 
knees, and she’d say: “Rise up, Sir Daniel Dravot.” 
Oh, it’s big! It’s big, I tell you! But there’s so much to 
be done in every place — Bashkai, Khawak, Shu, and every- 
where else.’ 

“‘What is it?’ I says. ‘There are no more men coming in 
to be drilled this autumn. Look at those fat, black clouds. 
They’re bringing the snow.’ 

“‘It isn’t that,’ says Daniel, putting his hand very hard on 
my shoulder; ‘and I don’t wish to say anything that’s against 
you, for no other living man would have followed me and 
made me what I am as you have done. You’re a first-class 
Commander-in-Chief, and the people know you; but — it’s a 
big country, and somehow you can’t help me, Peachey, in 
the way I want to be helped.’ 

“‘Go to your blasted priests, then!’ I said, and I was 
sorry when I made that remark, but it did hurt me sore to 
find Daniel talking so superior when I’d drilled all the men, 
and done all he told me. 

“‘Don’t let’s quarrel, Peachey,’ says Daniel without 
cursing. ‘You’re a King too, and the half of this Kingdom 
is yours; but can’t you see, Peachey, we want cleverer men 
than us now — three or four of ’em, that we can scatter about 


30 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


for our Deputies. It’s a hugeous great State, and I can’t 
always tell the right thing to do, and I haven’t time for all I 
want to do, and here’s the winter coming on and all.’ He 
put half his beard into his mouth, all red like the gold of his 
crown. 

“Tm sorry, Daniel,’ says I. ‘I’ve done all I could. 
I’ve drilled the men and shown the people how to stack 
their oats better; and I’ve brought in those tin- ware rifles 
from Ghorband — but I know what you’re driving at. I 
take it Kings always feel oppressed that way.’ 

“ ‘There’s another thing too,’ says Dravot, walking up and 
down. ‘The winter’s coming and these people won’t be 
giving much trouble, and if they do we can’t move about. I 
want a wife.’ 

“‘For Gord’s sake leave the women alone!’ I says. ‘We’ve 
both got all the work we can, though I am a fool. Remember 
the Contrack, and keep clear o’ women.’ 

“‘The Contrack only lasted till such time as we was 
Kings; and Kings we have been these months past,’ says 
Dravot, weighing his crown in his hand. ‘You go get 
a wife too, Peachey — a nice, strapping plump girl that’ll 
keep you warm in the winter. They’re prettier than English 
girls, and we can take the pick of ’em. Boil ’em once or 
twice in hot water, and they’ll come out like chicken and 
ham.’ 

‘“Don’t tempt me!’ I says. ‘I will not have any dealings 
with a woman not till we are a dam’ side more settled than 
we are now. I’ve been doing the work o’ two men, and 
you’ve been doing the work o’ three. Let’s lie off a bit, and 
see if we can get some better tobacco from Afghan country 
and run in some good liquor; but no women.’ 

“‘Who’s talking o’ women ? ’ says Dravot. ‘I said wife — 
a queen to breed a King’s son for the King. A Queen out 
of the strongest tribe, that’ll make them your blood-brothers 
and that’ll lie by your side and tell you all the people thinks 
about you and their own affairs. That’s what I want.’ 

“ ‘Do you remember that Bengali women I kept at Mogul 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 


31 


Serai when I was a plate-layer?’ says I. ‘A fat lot o’ good 
she was to me. She taught me the lingo and one or two 
other things; but what happened? She ran away with the 
Station Master’s servant and half my month’s pay. Then 
she turned up at Dadur Junction in tow of a half-caste, and 
had the impidence to say I was her husband — all among the 
drivers in the running-shed too!’ 

“‘We’ve done with that,’ says Dravot, ‘these women 
are whiter than you or me, and a Queen I will have for the 
winter months.’ 

“ ‘For the last time o’ asking, Dan, do not ,’ I says. ‘It’ll 
only bring us harm. The Bible says that Kings ain’t to 
waste their strength on women, ’specially when they’ve got a 
new raw Kingdom to work over.’ 

“‘For the last time of answering I will,’ said Dravot, 
and he went away through the pine-trees looking like a 
big red devil, the sun being on his crown and beard and 
all. 

“But getting a wife was not as easy as Dan thought. He 
put it before the Council, and there was no answer till Billy 
Fish said he’d better ask the girls. Dravot damned them all 
round. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ he shouts, standing by the 
idol Imbra. ‘Am I a dog or am I not enough of a man for 
your wenches? Haven’t I put the shadow of my hand over 
this country? Who stopped the last Afghan raid?’ It was 
me really, but Dravot was too angry to remember. ‘Who 
bought your guns? Who repaired the bridges? Who’s the 
Grand-Master of the sign cut in the stone?’ says he, and he 
thumped his hand on the block that he used to sit on in 
Lodge, and at Council, which opened like Lodge always. 
Billy Fish said nothing and no more did the others. ‘Keep 
your hair on, Dan,’ said I; ‘and ask the girls. That’s how it’s 
done at Home, and these people are quite English.’ 

“ ‘The marriage of the King is a matter of State,’ says Dan, 
in a white-hot rage, for he could feel, I hope, that he was 
going against his better mind. He walked out of the Council- 
room, and the others sat still, looking at the ground. 


32 STORIES FROM KIPLING 

“‘Billy Fish,’ says I to the Chief of Bashkai, ‘what’s the 
difficulty here? A straight answer to a true friend.’ 

“‘You know,’ says Billy Fish. ‘How should a man tell 
you who knows everything? How can daughters of men 
marry Gods or Devils? It’s not proper.’ 

“I remembered something like that in the Bible; 
but if, after seeing us as long ag they had, they still 
believed we were Gods, it wasn’t for me to undeceive 
them. 

“ ‘A God can do anything,’ says I. ‘If the King is fond of a 
girl he’ll not let her die.’ — ‘She’ll have to,’ said Billy Fish. 
‘There are all sorts of Gods and Devils in these mountains, 
and now and again a girl marries one of them and isn’t seen 
any more. Besides, you two know the Mark cut in the stone. 
Only the Gods know that. We thought you were men till 
you showed the sign of the Master.’ 

“I wished then that we had explained about the loss of 
the genuine secrets of a Master-Mason at the first go-off; but 
I said nothing. All that night there was a blowing of horns 
in a little dark temple half-way down the hill, and I heard a 
girl crying fit to die. One of the priests told us that she was 
being prepared to marry the King. 

“ ‘I’ll have no nonsense of that kind,’ says Dan. ‘I don’t 
want to interfere with your customs, but I’ll take my own 
wife.’ — ‘The girl’s a little bit afraid,’ says the priest. ‘She 
thinks she’s going to die, and they are aheartening of her up 
down in the temple.’ 

“ ‘Hearten her very tender, then,’ says Dravot, ‘or I’ll 
hearten you with the butt of a gun so you’ll never want to 
be heartened again.’ He licked his lips, did Dan, and 
stayed up walking about more than half the night, thinking 
of the wife that he was going to get in the morning. I 
wasn’t by any means comfortable, for I knew that deal- 
ings with a woman in foreign parts, though you was a crowned 
King twenty times over, could not but be risky. I got up 
very early in the morning while Dravot was asleep, and I saw 
the priests talking together in whispers, and the Chiefs 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 33 

talking together too, and they looked at me out of the cor- 
ners of their eyes. 

“‘What is up. Fish?’ I say to the Bashkai man, who was 
wrapped up in his furs and looking splendid to behold. 

‘“I can’t rightly say,’ says he; ‘but if you can make the 
King drop all this nonsense about marriage, you’ll be doing 
him and me and yourself a great service.’ 

“‘That I do believe,’ says I. ‘But sure, you know, Billy, 
as well as me, having fought against and for us, that the 
King and me are nothing more than two of the finest men that 
God Almighty ever made. Nothing more, I do assure you.’ 

“‘That may be,’ says Billy Fish, ‘and yet I should be sorry 
if it was.’ He sinks his head upon his great fur cloak for a 
minute and thinks. ‘King,’ says he, ‘be you man or God or 
Devil, I’ll stick by you to-day. I have twenty of my men 
with me, and they will follow me. We’ll go to Bashkai until 
the storm blows over.’ 

“A little snow had fallen in the night, and everything was 
white except the greasy fat clouds that blew down and down 
from the north. Dravot came out with his crown on his 
head, swinging his arms and stamping his feet, and looking 
more pleased than Punch. 

“‘For the last time, drop it, Dan,’ says I in a whisper, 
‘Billy Fish here says that there will be a row.” 

“‘A row among my people!’ says Dravot. ‘Not much. 
Peachey, you’re a fool not to get a wife too. Where’s the 
girl?’ says he with a voice as loud as the braying of a jackass. 
‘Call up all the Chiefs and priests, and let the Emperor see if 
his wife suits him.’ 

“There was no need to call any one. They were all there 
leaning on their guns and spears round the clearing in the 
center of the pine wood. A lot of priests went down to the 
little temple to bring up the girl, and the horns blew fit to 
wake the dead. Billy Fish saunters round and gets as close 
to Daniel as he could, and behind him stood his twenty men 
with matchlocks. Not a man of them under six feet. I was 
next to Dravot, and behind me was twenty men of the regular 


34 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


Army. Up comes the girl, and a strapping wench she was, 
covered with silver and turquoises but white as death, and 
looking back every minute at the priests. 

“‘She’ll do,’ said Dan, looking her over. ‘What’s to be 
afraid of, lass? Come and kiss me/ He puts his arm round 
her. She shuts her eyes, gives a bit of a squeak, and down 
goes her face in the side of Dan’s flaming red beard. 

“‘The slut’s bitten me!’ says he, clapping his hand to 
his neck, and, sure enough, his hand was red with blood. 
Billy Fish and two of his matchlock-men catches hold of Dan 
by the shoulders and drags him into the Bashkai lot, while the 
priests howls in their lingo, — ‘Neither God nor Devil but 
a man!’ I was all taken aback, for a priest cut at me in 
front, and the Army began firing into the Bashkai men. 

“‘God A’mighty!’ says Dan. ‘What is the meaning o’ 
this?’ 

“‘Come back! Come away!’ says Billy Fish. ‘Ruin and 
Mutiny is the matter. We’ll break for Bashkai if we can.’ 

“I tried to give some sort of orders to my men — the men 
o’ the regular Army — but it was no use, so I fired into the 
brown of ’em with an English Martini and drilled three 
beggars in a line. The valley was full of shouting, howling 
creatures, and every soul was shrieking, ‘Not a God nor a 
Devil but only a man!’ The Bashkai troops stuck to Billy 
Fish all they were worth, but their matchlocks wasn’t half 
as good as the Kabul breech-loaders, and four of them 
dropped. Dan was bellowing like a bull, for he was very 
wrathy ; and Billy Fish had a hard job to prevent him running 
out at the crowd. 

“‘We can’t stand,’ says Billy Fish. ‘Make a run for it 
down the valley! The whole place is against us.’ The 
matchlock-men ran, and we went down the valley in spite 
of Dravot. He was swearing horrible and crying out he was 
a King. The priests rolled great stones on us, and the 
regular Army fired hard, and there wasn’t more than six men, 
not counting Dan, Billy Fish, and Me, that came down to the 
bottom of the valley alive. 


35 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 

“Then they stopped firing and the horns in the temple 
blew again. ‘Come away — for Gord’s sake come away!’ 
says Billy Fish. ‘They’ll send runners out to all the villages 
before ever we get to Bashkai. I can protect you there, but 
I can’t do anything now.’ 

“My own notion is that Dan began to go mad in his head 
from that hour. He stared up and down like a stuck pig. 
Then he was all for walking back alone and killing the priests 
with his bare hands; which he could have done. ‘An 
Emperor am I,’ says Daniel, ‘and next year I shall be a 
Knight of the Queen.’ 

“‘All right, Dan,’ says I; ‘but come along now while 
there’s time.’ 

“‘It’s your fault,’ says he, ‘for not looking after your 
Army better. There was mutiny in the midst, and you 
didn’t know — you damned engine-driving, plate-laying, 
missionary’s-pass-hunting hound!’ He sat upon a rock and 
called me every foul name he could lay tongue to. I was too 
heart-sick to care, though it was all his foolishness that 
brought the smash. 

“‘I’m sorry, Dan,’ says I, ‘but there’s no accounting for 
natives. This business is our Fifty-seven. Maybe we’ll 
make something out of it yet, when we’ve got to Bashkai.’ 

“ ‘Let’s get to Bashkai, then,’ says Dan, ‘and, by God, when 
I come back here again I’ll sweep the valley so there isn’t a 
bug in a blanket left!’ 

“We walked all that day, and all that night Dan was 
stumping up and down on the snow, chewing his beard and 
muttering to himself. 

“‘There ’s no hope o’ getting clear,’ said Billy Fish. ‘The 
priests will have sent runners to the villages to say that you 
are only men. Why didn’t you stick on as Gods till things 
was more settled? I’m a dead man,’ says Billy Fish, and he 
throws himself down on the snow and begins to pray to his 
Gods. 

“Next morning we was in a cruel bad country — all up and 
down, no level ground at all, and no food either. The six 


36 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


Bashkai men looked at Billy Fish hungry-way as if they 
wanted to ask something, but they said never a word. At 
noon we came to the top of a flat mountain all covered with 
snow, and when we climbed up into it, behold, there was an 
Army in position waiting in the middle! 

“‘The runners have been very quick,’ says Billy Fish, with 
a little bit of a laugh. ‘They are waiting for us.’ 

“Three or four men began to fire from the enemy’s side, and 
a chance shot took Daniel in the calf of the leg. That 
brought him to his senses. He looks across the snow at the 
Army, and sees the rifles that we had brought into the 
country. 

“‘We’re done for,’ says he. ‘They are Englishmen, 
these people,' — and it’s my blasted nonsense that has brought 
you to this. Get back, Billy Fish, and take your men away; 
you’ve done what you could, and now cut for it. Carnehan,’ 
says he, ‘shake hands with me and go along with Billy. Maybe 
they won’t kill you. I’ll go and meet ’em alone. It’s me 
that did it. Me, the King ! ’ 

“‘Go!’ says I. ‘Go to Hell, Dan. I’m with you here. 
Billy Fish, you clear out, and we two will meet those folk.’ 

“‘I’m a Chief,’ says Billy Fish, quite quiet. ‘I stay with 
you. My men can go.’ 

“The Bashkai fellows didn’t wait for a second word but 
ran off, and Dan and Me and Billy Fish walked across to 
where the drums were drumming and the horns were horning. 
It was cold — awful cold. I’ve got that cold in the back of 
my head now. There’s a lump of it there.” 

The punkah-coolies had gone to sleep. Two kerosene 
lamps were blazing in the office, and the perspiration poured 
down my face and splashed on the blotter as I leaned forward. 
Carnehan was shivering, and I feared that his mind might go. 
I wiped my face, took a fresh grip of the piteously mangled 
hands, and said, “What happened after that?” 

The momentary shift of my eyes had broken the clear 
current. 

“What was you pleased to say?” whined Carnehan. 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 


37 


“They took them without any sound. Not a little whisper 
all along the snow, not though the King knocked down the 
first man that set hand on him — not though old Peachey 
fired his last cartridge into the brown of ’em. Not a single 
solitary sound did those swines make. They just closed up 
tight, and I tell you their furs stunk. There was a man 
called Billy Fish, a good friend of us all, and they cut his 
throat, Sir, then and there, like a pig; and the King kicks up 
the bloody snow and says : ‘We’ve had a dashed fine run for 
our money. What’s coming next?’ But Peachey, Peachey 
Taliaferro, I tell you, Sir, in confidence as betwixt two friends, 
he lost his head, Sir. No, he didn’t neither. The King lost his 
head, so he did all along o’ one of those cunning rope-bridges. 
Kindly let me have the paper-cutter, Sir. It tilted this way. 
They marched him a mile across that snow to a rope-bridge 
over a ravine with a river at the bottom. You may have 
seen such. They prodded him behind like an ox. ‘Damn 
your eyes!’ says the King. ‘D’you suppose I can’t die like a 
gentleman?’ He turns to Peachey — Peachey that was crying 
like a child. ‘I’ve brought you to this, Peachey,’ says he. 
‘Brought you out of your happy life to be killed in Kafiristan 
where you was late Commander-in-Chief of the Emperor’s 
forces. Say you forgive me, Peachey.’ — ‘I do,’ says Peachey. 
‘Fully and freely do I forgive you, Dan.’ — ‘Shake hands, 
Peachey,’ says he. ‘I’m going now.’ Out he goes, looking 
neither right nor left, and when he was plumb in the middle of 
those dizzy dancing ropes, — ‘Cut, you beggars,’ he shouts, 
and they cut, and old Dan fell, turning round and round 
and round, twenty thousand miles, for he took half an hour 
to fall till he struck the water, and I could see his body caught 
on a rock with the gold crown close beside. 

“But do you know what they did to Peachey between two 
pine-trees? They crucified him, Sir, as Peachey’s hands will 
show. They used wooden pegs for his hands and his feet; 
and he didn’t die. He hung there and screamed, and they 
took him down next day, and said it was a miracle that 
he wasn’t dead. They took him down — poor old Peachey 


38 STORIES FROM KIPLING 

that hadn’t done them any harm — that hadn’t done them 
any ” 

He rocked to and fro and wept bitterly, wiping his eyes 
with the back of his scarred hands and moaning like a child 
for some ten minutes. 

“They was cruel enough to feed him up in the temple, 
because they said he was more of a God than old Daniel 
that was a man. Then they turned him out on the snow, 
and told him to go home, and Peachey came home in about a 
year, begging along the roads quite safe; for Daniel Dravot 
he walked before and said: ‘Come along, Peachey. It’s a 
big thing we’re doing.’ The mountains they danced at 
night, and the mountains they tried to fall on Peachey’s 
head, but Dan he held up his hand, and Peachey came along 
bent double. He never let go of Dan’s hand, and he never 
let go of Dan’s head. They gave it to him as a present in the 
temple, to remind him not to come again, and though the 
crown was pure gold, and Peachey was starving, never could 
Peachey sell the same. You knew Dravot, Sir! You knew 
Right Worshipful Brother Dravot! Look at him now!” 

He fumbled in the mass of rags round his bent waist; 
brought out a black horsehair bag embroidered with silver 
thread; and shook therefrom on to my table — the dried, 
withered head of Daniel Dravot ! The morning sun that had 
long been paling the lamps struck the red beard and blind 
sunken eyes; struck, too, a heavy circlet of gold studded with 
raw turquoises, that Carnehan placed tenderly on the bat- 
tered temples. 

“You be ’old now,” said Carnehan, “the Emperor in 
his ’abit as he lived — the King of Kafiristan with his crown 
upon his head. Poor old Daniel that was a monarch 
once ! ” 

I shuddered, for, in spite of defacements manifold, I 
recognized the head of the man of Marwar Junction. Carne- 
han rose to go. I attempted to stop him. He was not fit to 
walk abroad. “Let me take away the whiskey, and give me 
a little money,” he gasped. “I was a King once. I’ll go to 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING 


39 


the Deputy Commissioner and ask to set in the Poorhouse till 
I get my health. No, thank you, I can’t wait till you get a 
carriage for me. I’ve urgent private affairs — in the south — 
at Marwar.” 

He shambled out of the office and departed in the direc- 
tion of the Deputy Commissioner’s house. That day at noon 
I had occasion to go down the blinding hot Mall, and I saw a 
crooked man crawling along the white dust of the roadside, 
his hat in his hand, quavering dolorously after the fashion of 
street-singers at Home. There was not a soul in sight, and 
he was out of all possible earshot of the houses. And he 
sang through his nose, turning his head from right to left: — 

“The Son of Man goes forth to war, 

A golden crown to gain; 

His blood-red banner steams afar — 

Who follows in his train? ” 

I waited to hear no more, but put the poor wretch into my 
carriage and drove him off to the nearest missionary for even- 
tual transfer to the Asylum. He repeated the hymn twice 
while he was with me whom he did not in the least recognize, 
and I left him singing it to the missionary. 

Two days later I inquired after his welfare of the Super- 
intendent of the Asylum. 

“He was admitted suffering from sun-stroke. He died 
early yesterday morning,” said the Superintendent. “Is 
it true that he was half an hour bare-headed in the sun at 
midday?” 

“Yes,” said I, “but do you happen to know if he had 
anything upon him by any chance when he died?” 

“Not to my knowledge,” said the Superintendent. 

And there the matter rests. 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 


(1889) 

In the Army List they still stand as “The Fore and Fit 
Princess Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen-Anspach’s Merther- 
Tydfilshire Own Royal Loyal Light Infantry, Regimental 
District 329A,” but the Army through all its barracks and 
canteens knows them now as the “Fore and Aft.” They 
may in time do something that shall make their new title 
honorable, but at present they are bitterly ashamed, and 
the man who calls them “Fore and Aft” does so at the risk of 
the head which is on his shoulders. 

Two words breathed into the stables of a certain Cavalry 
Regiment will bring the men out into the streets with belts 
and mops and bad language; but a whisper of “Fore and Aft ” 
will bring out this regiment with rifles. 

Their one excuse is that they came again and did their 
best to finish the job in style. But for a time all their world 
knows that they were openly beaten, whipped, dumb-cowed, 
shaking and afraid. The men know it; their officers know it; 
the Horse Guards know it, and when the next war comes the 
enemy will know it also. There are two or three regiments of 
the Line that have a black mark against their names which 
they will then wipe out; and it will be excessively inconvenient 
for the troops upon whom they do their wiping. 

The courage of the British soldier is officially supposed 
to be above proof, and, as a general rule, it is so. The 
exceptions are decently shoveled out of sight, only to be 
referred to in the freshest of unguarded talk that occasionally 
swamps a Mess-table at midnight. Then one hears strange 
and horrible stories of men not following their officers, of 

40 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 41 

orders being given by those who had no right to give them, 
and of disgrace that, but for the standing luck of the British 
Army, might have ended in brilliant disaster. These are 
unpleasant stories to listen to, and the Messes tell them under 
their breath, sitting by the big wood fires, and the young 
officer bows his head and thinks to himself, please God, his 
men shall never behave unhandily. 

The British soldier is not altogether to be blamed for oc- 
casional lapses; but this verdict he should not know. A 
moderately intelligent General will waste six months in 
mastering the craft of the particular war that he may be 
waging; a Colonel may utterly misunderstand the capacity 
of his regiment for three months after it has taken the field, 
and even a Company Commander may err and be deceived 
as to the temper and temperament of his own handful: where- 
fore the soldier, and the soldier of to-day more particularly, 
should not be blamed for falling back. He should be shot or 
hanged afterwards — to encourage the others; but he should 
not be vilified in newspapers, for that is want of tact and 
waste of space. 

He has, let us say, been in the service of the Empress for, 
perhaps, four years. He will leave in another two years. He 
has no inherited morals, and four years are not sufficient to 
drive toughness into his fiber, or to teach him how holy a 
thing is his Regiment. He wants to drink, he wants to 
enjoy himself — in India he wants to save money — and he 
does not in the least like getting hurt. He has received just 
sufficient education to make him understand half the purport 
of the orders he receives, and to speculate on the nature of 
clean, incised, and shattering wounds. Thus, if he is told to 
deploy under fire preparatory to an attack, he knows that he 
runs a very great risk of being killed while he is deploying, 
and suspects that he is being thrown away to gain ten 
minutes’ time. He may either deploy with desperate swift- 
ness, or he may shuffle, or bunch, or break, according to the 
discipline under which he has lain for four years. 

Armed with imperfect knowledge, cursed with the rudi- 


42 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


ments of an imagination, hampered by the intense selfishness 
of the lower classes, and unsupported by any regimental 
associations, this young man is suddenly introduced to an 
enemy who in eastern lands is always ugly, generally tall and 
hairy, and frequently noisy. If he looks to the right and the 
left and sees old soldiers — men of twelve years’ service, who 
he knows, know what they are about — taking a charge, rush, 
or demonstration without embarrassment, he is consoled and 
applies his shoulder to the butt of his rifle with a stout heart. 
His peace is the greater if he hears a senior, who has taught 
him his soldiering and broken his head on occasion, whispering : 
“They’ll shout and carry on like this for five minutes. Then 
they’ll rush in, and then we’ve got ’em by the short hairs ! ” 
But, on the other hand, if he sees only men of his own 
term of service, turning white and playing with their triggers 
and saying : “ What the Hell’s up now? ” while the Company 

Commanders are sweating into their sword-hilts and shouting: 
“Front-rank, fix bayonets. Steady there — steady! Sight 
for three hundred — no, for five! Lie down, all! Steady! 
Front-rank kneel!” and so forth, he becomes unhappy, and 
grows acutely miserable when he hears a comrade turn over 
with the rattle of fire-irons falling into the fender, and the 
grunt of a pole-axed ox. If he can be moved about a little 
and allowed to watch the effect of his own fire on the enemy 
he feels merrier, and may be then worked up to the blind 
passion of fighting, which is, contrary to general belief, 
controlled by a chilly Devil and shakes men like ague. If he 
is not moved about, and begins to feel cold at the pit of the 
stomach, and in that crisis is badly mauled and hears orders 
that were never given, he will break, and he will break badly, 
and of all things under the light of the Sun there is nothing 
more terrible than a broken British regiment. When the 
worst comes to the worst and the panic is really epidemic, the 
men must be e’en let go, and the Company Commanders had 
better escape to the enemy and stay there for safety’s sake. 
If they can be made to come again they are not pleasant men 
to meet; because they will not break twice. 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 43 

About thirty years from this date, when we have succeeded 
in half -educating everything that wears trousers, our Army 
will be a beautifully unreliable machine. It will know too 
much and it will do too little. Later still, when all men are 
at the mental level of the officer of to-day, it will sweep the 
earth. Speaking roughly, you must employ either black- 
guards or gentlemen, or, best of all, blackguards commanded 
by gentlemen, to do butcher’s work with efficiency and 
despatch. The ideal soldier should, of course, think for him- 
self — the Pocket-book says so. Unfortunately, to attain this 
virtue, he has to pass through the phase of thinking of him- 
self, and that is misdirected genius. A blackguard may be 
slow to think for himself, but he is genuinely anxious to kill, 
and a little punishment teaches him how to guard his own 
skin and perforate another’s. A powerfully prayerful High- 
land Regiment, officered by rank Presbyterians, is, per- 
haps, one degree more terrible in action than a hard-bitten 
thousand of irresponsible Irish ruffians led by most improper 
young unbelievers. But these things prove the rule — which 
is that the midway men are not to be trusted alone. They 
have ideas about the value of life and an upbringing that has 
not taught them to go on and take the chances. They are 
carefully unprovided with a backing of comrades who have 
been shot over, and until that backing is re-introduced, as a 
great many Regimental Commanders intend it shall be, they 
are more liable to disgrace themselves than the size of the 
Empire or the dignity of the Army allows. Their officers are 
as good as good can be, because their training begins early, 
and God has arranged that a clean-run youth of the British 
middle classes shall, in the matter of backbone, brains, and 
bowels, surpass all other youths. For this reason a child of 
eighteen will stand up, doing nothing, with a tin sword in his 
hand and joy in his heart until he is dropped. If he dies, he 
dies like a gentleman. If he lives, he writes Home that he 
has been “potted,” “sniped,” “chipped,” or “cut over,” and 
sits down to besiege Government for a wound-gratuity until 
the next little war breaks out, when he perjures himself 


44 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


before a Medical Board, blarneys his Colonel, burns incense 
round his Adjutant, and is allowed to go to the Front once 
more. 

Which homily brings me directly to a brace of the most 
finished little fiends that ever banged drum or tootled fife in 
the Band of a British Regiment. They ended their sinful 
career by open and flagrant mutiny and were shot for it. 
Their names were Jakin and Lew — Piggy Lew — and they 
were bold, bad drummer-boys, both of them frequently 
birched by the Drum-Major of the Fore and Aft. 

Jakin was a stunted child of fourteen, and Lew was about 
the same age. When not looked after, they smoked and 
drank. They swore habitually after the manner of the 
Barrack-room, which is cold-swearing and comes from 
between clinched teeth, and they fought religiously once a 
week. Jakin had sprung from some London gutter and may 
or may not have passed through Doctor Barnardo’s hands 
ere he arrived at the dignity of drummer-boy. Lew could 
remember nothing except the Regiment and the delight of 
listening to the Band from his earliest years. He hid some- 
where in his grimy little soul a genuine love for music, and 
was most mistakenly furnished with the head of a cherub: 
insomuch that beautiful ladies who watched the Regiment in 
church were wont to speak of him as a “darling.” They 
never heard his vitriolic comments on their manners and 
morals, as he walked back to barracks with the Band and 
matured fresh causes of offence against Jakin. 

The other drummer-boys hated both lads on account of 
their illogical conduct. Jakin might be pounding Lew, or 
Lew might be rubbing Jakin ’s head in the dirt, but any 
attempt at aggression on the part of an outsider was met by 
the combined forces of Lew and Jakin; and the consequences 
were painful. The boys were the Ishmaels of the corps, but 
wealthy Ishmaels, for they sold battles in alternate weeks for 
the sport of the barracks when they were not pitted against 
other boys; and thus amassed money. 

On this particular day there was dissension in the camp. 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 4 5 


They had just been convicted afresh of smoking, which is 
bad for little boys who use plug-tobacco, and Lew’s con- 
tention was that Jakin had “stunk so ’orrid bad from keepin’ 
the pipe in pocket,” that he and he alone was responsible 
for the birching they were both tingling under. 

“I tell you I ’id the pipe back o’ barracks,” said Jakin 
pacifically. 

“You’re a bloomin’ liar,” said Lew without heat. 

“You’re a bloomin’ little barstard,” said Jakin, strong 
in the knowledge that his own ancestry was unknown. Now 
there is one word in the extended vocabulary of Barrack- 
room abuse that cannot pass without comment. You may 
call a man a thief and risk nothing. You may even call him a 
coward without finding more than a boot whiz past your ear, 
but you must not call a man a bastard unless you are prepared 
to prove it on his front teeth. 

“You might ha’ kep’ that till I wasn’t so sore,” said Lew 
sorrowfully, dodging round Jakin ’s guard. 

“I’ll make you sorer,” said Jakin genially, and got home on 
Lew’s alabaster forehead. All would have gone well and this 
story, as the books say, would never have been written, had 
not his evil fate prompted the Bazar-Sergeant’s son, a long, 
employless man of five-and-twenty, to put in an appearance 
after the first round. He was eternally in need of money, 
and knew that the boys had silver. 

“Fighting again,” said he. “I’ll report you to my father, 
and he’ll report you to the Color-Sergeant.” 

“What’s that to you?” said Jakin with an unpleasant dila- 
tion of the nostrils. 

“Oh! nothing to me. You’ll get into trouble, and you’ve 
been up too often to afford that.” 

“What the Hell do you know about what we’ve done?” 
asked Lew the Seraph. “Fow aren’t in the Army, you 
lousy, cadging civilian.” 

He closed in on the man’s left flank. 

“ Jes’ ’cause you find two gentlemen settlin’ their diff’rences 
with their fistes you stick in your ugly nose where you aren’t 


46 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


wanted. Run ’ome to your ’arf -caste slut of a Ma — or we’ll 
give you what-for,” said Jakin. 

The man attempted reprisals by knocking the boys’ heads 
together. The scheme would have succeeded had not Jakin 
punched him vehemently in the stomach, or had Lew re- 
frained from kicking his shins. They fought together, 
bleeding and breathless, for half an hour, and, after heavy 
punishment, triumphantly pulled down their opponent as 
terriers pull down a jackal. 

“Now,” gasped Jakin, “I’ll give you what-for.” He 
proceeded to pound the man’s features while Lew stamped 
on the outlying portions of his anatomy. Chivalry is not a 
strong point in the composition of the average drummer-boy. 
He fights, as do his betters, to make his mark. 

Ghastly was the ruin that escaped, and awful was the 
wrath of the Bazar-Sergeant. Awful too was the scene in 
Orderly-room when the two reprobates appeared to answer 
the charge of half -murdering a “civilian.” The Bazar- 
Sergeant thirsted for a criminal action, and his son lied. The 
boys stood to attention while the black clouds of evidence 
accumulated. 

“You little devils are more trouble than the rest of the 
Regiment put together,” said the Colonel angrily. “One 
might as well admonish thistledown, and I can’t well put 
you in cells or under stoppages. You must be birched again.” 

“Beg y’ pardon, Sir. Can’t we say nothin’ in our own 
defence, Sir?” shrilled Jakin. 

“Hey! What? Are you going to argue with me?” said 
the Colonel. 

“No, Sir,” said Lew. “But if a man come to you, Sir, 
and said he was going to report you, Sir, for ’aving a bit of a 
turn-up with a friend, Sir, an’ wanted to get money out o’ 
you , Sir ” 

The Orderly-room exploded in a roar of laughter. “ Well? ” 
said the Colonel. 

“That was what that measly jarnwar there did, Sir, and 
’e’d ’a’ done it. Sir, if we ’adn’t prevented ’im. We didn’t 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 47 

’it ’im much, Sir. ’E ’adn’t no manner o’ right to interfere 
with us, Sir. I don’t mind bein’ birched by the Drum- 
Major, Sir, nor yet reported by any Corp’ral, but I’m — but I 
don’t think it’s fair, Sir, for a civilian to come an’ talk over a 
man in the Army.” 

A second shout of laughter shook the Orderly-room, 
but the Colonel was grave. 

“What sort of characters have these boys?” he asked 
of the Regimental Sergeant-Major. 

“Accordin’ to the Bandmaster, Sir,” returned that revered 
official — the only soul in the Regiment whom the boys 
feared — “they do everything but lie. Sir.” 

“Is it like we’d go for that man for fun, Sir?” said Lew, 
pointing to the plaintiff. 

“Oh, admonished, — admonished!” said the Colonel testily, 
and when the boys had gone he read the Bazar-Sergeant’s 
son a lecture on the sin of unprofitable meddling, and gave 
orders that the Bandmaster should keep the Drums in better 
discipline. 

“If either of you come to practice again with so much as 
a scratch on your two ugly little faces,” thundered the 
Bandmaster, “I’ll tell the Drum-Major to take the skin off 
your backs. Understand that, you young devils.” 

Then he repented of his speech for just the length of time 
that Lew, looking like a seraph in red worsted embellish- 
ments, took the place of one of the trumpets — in hospital — 
and rendered the echo of a battle-piece. Lew certainly was a 
musician, and had often in his more exalted moments ex- 
pressed a yearning to master every instrument of the Band. 

“There’s nothing to prevent your becoming a Band- 
master, Lew,” said the Bandmaster, who had composed 
waltzes of his own, and worked day and night in the interests 
of the Band. 

“What did he say?” demanded Jakin after practice. 

“ ’Said I might be a bloomin’ Bandmaster, an’ be asked 
in to ’ave aglass o’ sherry-wine on Mess-nights.” 

“Ho! ’Said you might be a bloomin’ non-combatant, did 


48 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


’e! That’s just about wot ’e would say. When I’ve but in 
my boy’s service — it’s a bloomin’ shame that doesn’t count 
for pension — I’ll take on as a privit. Then I’ll be a Lance in 
a year — knowin’ what I know about the ins and outs o’ 
things. In three years I’ll be a bloomin’ Sergeant. I won’t 
merry then, not I! I’ll ’old on and learn the orf’cers’ ways 
an’ apply for exchange into a reg’ment that doesn’t know all 
about me. Then I’ll be a bloomin’ orf’cer. Then I’ll ask 
you to ’ave a glass o’ sherry-wine, Mister Lew, an’ you’ll 
bloomin’ well ’ave to stay in the hanty-room while the 
Mess-Sergeant brings it to your dirty ’ands.” 

“ ’S’pose I’m going to be a Bandmaster? Not I, quite. 
I’ll be a orf’cer too. There’s nothin’ like takin’ to a thing 
an’ stickin’ to it, the Schoolmaster says. The Reg’ment 
don’t go ’ome for another seven years. I’ll be a Lance then 
or near to.” 

Thus the boys discussed their futures, and conducted 
themselves piously for a week. That is to say, Lew started 
a flirtation with the Color-Sergeant’s daughter, aged thirteen 
— “not,” as he explained to Jakin, “with any intention of 
matrimony, but by way o’ keepin’ my ’and in.” And 
the black-haired Cris Delighan enjoyed that flirtation more 
than previous ones, and the other drummer-boys raged 
furiously together, and Jakin preached sermons on the 
dangers of “bein’ tangled along o’ petticoats.” 

But neither love nor virtue would have held Lew long 
in the paths of propriety had not the rumour gone abroad 
that the Regiment wes to be sent on active service, to take 
part in a war which, for the sake of brevity, we will call “The 
War of the Lost Tribes.” 

The barracks had the rumour almost before the Mess- 
room, and of all the nine hundred men in barracks, not ten had 
seen a shot fired in anger. The Colonel had, twenty years 
ago, assisted at a Frontier expedition; one of the Majors 
had seen service at the Cape; a confirmed deserter in E 
Company had helped to clear streets in Ireland; but that was 
all. The Regiment had been put by for many years. The 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 49 


overwhelming mass of its rank and file had from three to 
four years’ service; the non-commissioned officers were 
under thirty years old; and men and sergeants alike had 
forgotten to speak of the stories written in brief upon the 
Colors — the New Colors that had been formally blessed 
by an Archbishop in England ere the Regiment came away. 

They wanted to go to the Front — they were enthusias- 
tically anxious to go — but they had no knowledge of what 
war meant, and there was none to tell them. They were an 
educated regiment, the percentage of school-certificates 
in their ranks was high, and most of the men could do more 
than read and write. They had been recruited in loyal 
observance of the territorial idea; but they themselves had 
no notion of that idea. They were made up of drafts from 
an over-populated manufacturing district. The system had 
put flesh and muscle upon their small bones, but it could not 
put heart into the sons of those who for generations had done 
overmuch work for over-scanty pay, had sweated in drying- 
rooms, stooped over looms, coughed among white-lead, and 
shivered on lime-barges. The men had found food and rest 
in the Army, and now they were going to fight “niggers” — 
people who ran away if you shook a stick at them. Where- 
fore they cheered lustily when the rumor ran, and the 
shrewd, clerkly non-commissioned officers speculated on the 
chances of batta and of saving their pay. At Headquarters, 
men said: “The Fore and Fit have never been under fire 
within the last generation. Let us, therefore, break them in 
easily by setting them to guard lines of communication.” 
And this would have been done but for the fact that British 
Regiments were wanted — badly wanted — at the Front, and 
there were doubtful Native Regiments that could fill the 
minor duties. “Brigade ’em with two strong Regiments,” 
said Headquarters. “They may be knocked about a bit, 
but they’ll learn their business before they come through. 
Nothing like a night-alarm and a little cutting-up of stragglers 
to make a Regiment smart in the field. Wait till they’ve 
had half a dozen sentries’ throats cut.” 


50 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


The Colonel wrote with delight that the temper of his 
men was excellent, that the Regiment was all that could 
be wished, and as sound as a bell. The Majors smiled 
with a sober joy, and the subalterns waltzed in pairs down 
the Mess-room after dinner, and nearly shot themselves 
at revolver-practice. But there was consternation in the 
hearts of Jakin and Lew. What was to be done with the 
Drums? Would the Band go to the Front? How many 
of the Drums would accompany the Regiment? 

They took council together, sitting in a tree and smoking. 

“It’s more than a bloomin’ toss-up they’ll leave us be’ind 
at the Depot with the women. You’ll like that,” said Jakin 
sarcastically. 

“ ’Cause o’ Cris, y’ mean? Wot’s a woman, or a ’ole 
bloomin’ depot o’ women, ’longside o’ the chanst of field- 
service? You know I’m as keen on going as you,” said 
Lew.^ 

“ ’Wish I was a bloomin’ bugler,” said Jakin sadly. 
“They’ll take Tom Kidd along, that I can plaster a wall 
with, an’ like as not they won’t take us.” 

“Then let’s go an’ make Tom Kidd so bloomin’ sick ’e 
can’t bugle no more. You ’old ’is ’ands an I’ll kick ’im,” said 
Lew, wriggling on the branch. 

“That ain’t no good neither. We ain’t the sort o’ char- 
acters to presoom on our rep’tations — they’re bad. If they 
leave the Band at the Depot we don’t go, and no error there. 
If they take the Band we may get cast for medical unfitness. 
Are you medical fit, Piggy?” said Jakin, digging Lew in the 
ribs with force. 

“Yus,” said Lew with an oath. “The Doctor says your 
’eart’s weak through smokin’ on an empty stummick. 
Throw a chest an’ I’ll try yer.” 

Jakin threw out his chest, which Lew smote with all his 
might. Jakin turned very pale, gasped, crowed, screwed 
up his eyes and said — “That’s all right.” 

“You’ll do,” said Lew. “I’ve ’eard o’ men dying when 
you ’it ’em fair on the breastbone.” 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 51 

“Don’t bring us no nearer goin,’ though,” said Jakin. 
“Do you know where we’re ordered?” 

“Gawd knows, an’ ’E won’t split on a pal. Somewheres 
up to the Front to kill Paythans — hairy big beggars that 
turn you inside out if they get ’old o’ you. They say their 
women are good-looking, too.” 

“Any loot?” asked the abandoned Jakin. 

“Not a bloomin’ anna, they say, unless you dig up the 
ground an’ see what the niggers ’ave ’id. They’re a poor lot.” 
Jakin stood upright on the branch and gazed across the plain. 

“Lew,” said he, “there’s the Colonel coming. ’Colonel’s a 
good old beggar. Let’s go an’ talk to ’im.” 

Lew nearly fell out of the tree at the audacity of the 
suggestion. Like Jakin he feared not God, neither regarded 
he Man, but there are limits even to the audacity of a 
drummer-boy, and to speak to a Colonel was 

But Jakin had slid down the trunk and doubled in the 
direction of the Colonel. That officer was walking wrapped 
in thought and visions of a C. B. — yes , even a K. C. B., for 
had he not at command one of the best Regiments of the 
Line — the Fore and Fit? And he was aware of two small 
boys charging down upon him. Once before it had been 
solemnly reported to him that “the Drums were in a state of 
mutiny,” Jakin and Lew being the ring-leaders. This looked 
like an organized conspiracy. 

The boys halted at twenty yards, walked to the regulation 
four paces, and saluted together, each as well set-up as a 
ramroad and little taller. 

The Colonel was in a genial mood; the boys appeared very 
forlorn and unprotected on the desolate plain, and one of them 
was handsome. 

“Well!” said the Colonel, recognizing them. “Are you 
going to pull me down in the open? I’m sure I never inter- 
fere with you, even though” — he sniffed suspiciously — “you 
have been smoking.” 

It was time to strike while the iron was hot. Their hearts 
beat tumultuously. 


52 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“Beg y’ pardon, Sir,” began Jakin. “The Reg’ment’s 
ordered on active service, Sir?” 

“So I believe,” said the Colonel courteously. 

“Is the Band goin’, Sir?” said both together. Then, 
without pause, “We’re goin’, Sir, ain’t we?” 

“You!” said the Colonel, stepping back the more fully to 
take in the two small figures. “You! You’d die in the 
first march.” 

“No, we wouldn’t, Sir. We can march with the Reg’- 
ment anywheres — p’rade an’ anywhere else,” said Jakin. 

“If Tom Kidd goes ’e ’ll shut up like a clasp-knife,” said 
Lew. “Tom ’as very-close veins in both ’is legs, Sir.” 

“Very how much?” 

“Very-close veins, Sir. That’s why they swells after long 
p’rade, Sir. If ’e can go, we can go, Sir.” 

Again the Colonel looked at them long and intently. 

“Yes, the Band is going,” he said as gravely as though he 
had been addressing a brother officer. “Have you any 
parents, either of you two?” 

“No, Sir,” rejoicingly from Lew and Jakin. “We’re both 
orphans. Sir. There’s no one to be considered of on our 
account. Sir.” 

“You poor little sprats, and you want to go up to the 
Front with the Regiment, do you? Why?” 

“I’ve wore the Queen’s Uniform for two years,” said 
Jakin. “It’s very ’ard, Sir, that a man don’t get no rec- 
ompense for doin’ of ’is dooty. Sir.” 

“An’ — an’ if I don’t go, Sir,” interrupted Lew, “the 
Bandmaster ’e says ’e’ll catch an’ make a bloo — a blessed 
musician o’ me, Sir. Before I’ve seen any service, Sir.” 

The Colonel made no answer for a long time. Then he 
said quietly: “If you’re passed by the Doctor I dare say 
you can go. I shouldn’t smoke if I were you.” 

The boys saluted and disappeared. The Colonel walked 
home and told the story to his wife, who nearly cried over 
it. The Colonel was well pleased. If that was the temper 
of the children, what would not the men do? 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 53 


Jakin and Lew entered the boys’ barrack-room with 
great stateliness, and refused to hold any conversation 
with their comrades for at least ten minutes. Then, bursting 
with pride, Jakin drawled : “ I’ve bin intervooin’ the Colonel. 
Good old beggar is the Colonel. Says I to ’im ‘Colonel,’ 
says I, ‘let me go to the Front, along o’ the Reg’ment.’ — ‘To 
the Front you shall go,’ says ’e, ‘an’ I only wish there was 
more like you among the dirty little devils that bang the 
bloomin’ drums.’ Kidd, if you throw your ’courterments at 
me for tellin’ you the truth to your own advantage, your 
legs’ll swell.” 

None the less there was a Battle-Royal in the bar- 
rack-room, for the boys were consumed with envy and 
hate, and neither Jakin nor Lew behaved in conciliatory 
wise. 

“I’m goin’ out to say adoo to my girl,” said Lew to cap the 
climax. “Don’t none o’ you touch my kit because it’s 
wanted for active service; me bein’ specially invited to go by 
the Colonel.” 

He strolled forth and whistled in the clump of trees at the 
back of the Married Quarters till Cris came to him, and, the 
preliminary kisses being given and taken, Lew began to 
explain the situation. 

“I’m goin’ to the Front with the Reg’ment,” he said 
valiantly. 

“Piggy, you’re a little liar,” said Cris, but her heart mis- 
gave her, for Lew was not in the habit of lying. 

“Liar yourself, Cris,” said Lew, slipping an arm round her. 
“I’m goin’. When the Reg’ment marches out you’ll see me 
with ’em, all galliant and gay. Give us another kiss, Cris, on 
the strength of it.” 

“If you’d on’y a-stayed at the Depot — where you ought to 
ha’ bin — you could get as many of ’em as — as you dam 
please,” whimpered Cris, putting up her mouth. 

“It’s ’ard, Cris. I grant you it’s ’ard. But what’s a 
man to do? If I’d a-stayed at the Depot, you wouldn’t 
think anything of me.” 


54 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“Like as not, but I’d ’ave you with me, Piggy. An’ all 
the thinkin’ in the world isn’t like kissin’.” 

“An’ all the kissin’ in the world isn’t like ’avin’ a medal 
to wear on the front o’ your coat.” 

“ You won’t get no medal.” 

“ Oh yus, I shall though. Me an’ Jakin are the only acting- 
drummers that’ll be took along. All the rest is full men, 
an’ we’ll get our medals with them.” 

“They might ha’ taken anybody but you, Piggy. You’ll 
get killed — you’re so venturesome. Stay with me, Piggy, 
darlin’, down at the Depot, an’ I’ll love you true, for ever.” 

“Ain’t you goin’ to do that now , Cris? You said you was.” 

“O’ course I am, but th’ other’s more comfortable. Wait 
till you’ve growed a bit, Piggy. You aren’t no taller than me 
now.” 

“I’ve bin in the Army for two years an* I’m not goin’ to 
get out of a chanst o’ seein’ service an’ don’t you try to make 
me do so. I’ll come back, Cris, an’ when I take on as a 
man I’ll marry you — marry you when I’m a Lance.” 

“Promise, Piggy?” 

Lew reflected on the future as arranged by Jakin a short 
time previously, but Cris’s mouth was very near to his own. 

“I promise, s’elp me, Gawd!” said he. 

Cris slid an arm round his neck. 

“I won’t ’old you back no more, Piggy. Go away an’ get 
your medal, an’ I’ll make you a new button-bag as nice as I 
know how,” she whispered. 

“Put some o’ your ’air into it, Cris, an’ I’ll keep it in my 
pocket so long’s I’m alive.” 

Then Cris wept anew, and the interview ended. Public 
feeling among the drummer-boys rose to fever pitch and the 
lives of Jakin and Lew became unenviable. Not only had 
they been permitted to enlist two years before the regulation 
boy’s age — fourteen — but, by virtue, it seemed, of their 
extreme youth, they were allowed to go to the Front — which 
thing had not happened to acting-drummers within the 
knowledge of boy. The Band which was to accompany the 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 55 

Regiment had been cut down to the regulation twenty men, 
the surplus returning to the ranks. Jakin and Lew were 
attached to the Band as supernumeraries, though they would 
much have preferred being company buglers. 

“ ’Don’t matter much,” said Jakin after the medical 
inspection. “Be thankful that we’re ’lowed to go at all. 
The Doctor ’e said that if we could stand what we took 
from the Bazar-Sergeant’s son we’d stand pretty nigh any- 
thing.” 

“Which we will,” said Lew, looking tenderly at the ragged 
and ill- made housewife that Gris had given him, with a lock 
of her hair worked into a sprawling “L” upon the cover. 

“It was the best I could,” she sobbed. “I wouldn’t let 
Mother nor the Sergeant’s tailor ’elp me. Keep it always, 
Piggy, an’ remember I love you true.” 

They marched to the railway station, nine hundred and 
sixty strong, and every soul in cantonments turned out to see 
them go. The drummers gnashed their teeth at Jakin and 
Lew marching with the Band, the married women wept upon 
the platform, and the Regiment cheered its noble self black 
in the face. 

“A nice level lot,” said the Colonel to the Second-in- 
Command as they watched the first four companies en- 
training. 

“Fit to do anything,” said the Second-in-Command en- 
thusiastically. “But it seems to me they’re a thought too 
young and tender for the work in hand. It’s bitter cold up 
at the Front now.” 

“They’re sound enough,” said the Colonel. “We must 
take our chance of sick casualties.” 

So they went northward, ever northward, past droves and 
droves of camels, armies of camp-followers, and legions of 
laden mules, the throng thickening day by day, till with a 
shriek the train pulled up at a hopelessly congested junction 
where six lines of temporary track accommodated six forty- 
wagon trains; where whistles blew, Babus sweated and 
Commissariat officers swore from dawn till far into the 


56 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


night amid the wind-driven chaff of the fodder-bales and the 
lowing of a thousand steers. 

“Hurry up — you’re badly wanted at the Front,” was the 
message that greeted the Fore and Aft, and the occupants 
of the Red Cross carriages told the same tale. 

“ ’Tisn’t so much of the bloomin’ fightin’,” gasped a head- 
bound trooper of Hussars to a knot of admiring Fore and 
Afts. “ ’Tisn’t so much the bloomin’ fightin’, though there’s 
enough o’ that. It’s the bloomin’ food an’ the bloomin’ 
climate. Frost all night ’cept when it hails, and biling sun 
all day, and the water stinks fit to knock you down. I got 
my ’ead chipped like a egg; I’ve got pneumonia too, an’ my 
guts is all out o’ order. ’Tain’t no bloomin’ picnic in those 
parts, I can tell you.” 

“Wot are the niggers like?” demanded a private. 

“There’s some prisoners in that train yonder. Go an’ 
look at ’em. They’re the aristocracy o’ the country. The 
common folk are a dashed sight uglier. If you want to 
know what they fight with, reach under my seat an’ pull out 
the long knife that’s there.” 

They dragged out and beheld for the first time the grim, 
bone-handled, triangular Afghan knife. It was almost as 
long as Lew. 

“That’s the thing to jint ye,” said the trooper feebly. 
“It can take off a man’s arm at the shoulder as easy as 
slicing butter. I halved the beggar that used that ’un, but 
there’s more of his likes up above. They don’t understand 
thrustin’, but they’re devils to slice.” 

The men strolled across the tracks to inspect the Afghan 
prisoners. They were unlike any “niggers” that the Fore 
and Aft had ever met — these huge, black-haired, scowling 
sons of the Beni-Israel. As the men stared the Afghans spat 
freely and muttered one to another with lowered eyes. 

“My eyes ! Wot awful swine ! ” said Jakin, who was in the 
rear of the procession. “Say, old man, how you got puck- 
rowed , eh? Kiswasti you wasn’t hanged for your ugly face, 
bey?” 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 57 

The tallest of the company turned, his leg-irons clanking 
at the movement, and stared at the boy. “ See ! ” he cried to 
his fellows in Pushto. “They send children against us. 
What a people, and what fools!” 

“Hi/a/” said Jakin, nodding his head cheerily. “You go 
down-country. Khana get, peenikapanee get — live like a 
bloomin’ Raja he marfik. That’s a better bandobust than 
bay nit get it in your innards. Good-bye, ole man. Take 
care o’ your beautiful figure- ’ed, an’ try to look kushy.’ 

The men laughed and fell in for their first march when they 
began to realize that a soldier’s life was not all beer and 
skittles. They were much impressed with the size and bestial 
ferocity of the niggers whom they had now learned to call 
“Paythans,” and more with the exceeding discomfort of their 
own surroundings. Twenty old soldiers in the corps would 
have taught them how to make themselves moderately snug 
at night, but they had no old soldiers, and, as the troops on 
the line of march said, “they lived like pigs.” They learned 
the heart-breaking cussedness of camp-kitchens and camels 
and the depravity of an E. P. tent and a wither-wrung mule. 
They studied animalculse in water, and developed a few 
cases of dysentery in their study. 

At the end of their third march they were disagreeably 
surprised by the arrivals in their camp of a hammered iron 
slug which, fired from a steady rest at seven hundred yards, 
flicked out the brains of a private seated by the fire. This 
robbed them of their peace for a night, and was the beginning 
of a long-range fire carefully calculated to that end. Intheday- 
time they saw nothing except an unpleasant puff of smoke 
from a crag above the line of march. At night there were 
distant spurts of flame and occasional casualties, which set the 
whole camp blazing into the gloom, and occasionally, into 
opposite tents. Then they swore vehemently and vowed 
that this was magnificent but not war. 

Indeed it was not. The Regiment could not halt for 
reprisals against the sharpshooters of the country-side. Its 
duty was to go forward and make connection with the Scotch 


58 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


and Gurkha troops with which it was brigaded. The 
Afghans knew this, and knew too, after their first tentative 
shots, that they were dealing with a raw regiment. There- 
after they devoted themselves to the task of keeping the Fore 
and Aft on the strain. Not for anything would they have 
taken equal liberties with a seasoned corps — with the wicked 
little Gurkhas, whose delight it was to lie out in the open on a 
dark night and stalk their stalkers — with the terrible, big 
men dressed in women’s clothes, who could be heard praying 
to their God in the night-watches, and whose peace of mind 
no amount of “sniping” could shake — or with those vile 
Sikhs, who marched so ostentatiously unprepared and who 
dealt out such grim reward to those who tried to profit by 
that unpreparedness. This white regiment was different — 
quite different. It slept like a hog, and, like a hog, charged 
in every direction when it was roused. Its sentries walked 
with a footfall that could be heard for a quarter of a mile; 
would fire at anything that moved — even a driven donkey — 
and when they had once fired, could be scientifically “rushed ” 
and laid out a horror and an offence against the morning 
sun. Then there were camp-followers who straggled and 
could be cut up without fear. Their shrieks would disturb 
the white boys, and the loss of their services would incon- 
venience them sorely. 

Thus, at every march, the hidden enemy became bolder and 
the regiment writhed and twisted under attacks it could not 
avenge. The crowning triumph was a sudden night-rush 
ending in the cutting of many tent-ropes, the collapse of the 
sodden canvas and a glorious knifing of the men who struggled 
and kicked below. It was a great deed, neatly carried out, 
and it shook the already shaken nerves of the Fore and Aft. 
All the courage that they had been required to exercise up to 
this point was the “two o’clock in the morning courage,” and 
so far, they had only succeeded in shooting their comrades 
and losing their sleep. 

Sullen, discontented, cold, savage, sick, with their uniforms 
dulled and unclean, the Fore and Aft joined their Brigade. 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 59 

“I hear you had a tough time of it coming up,” said the 
Brigadier. But when he saw the hospital-sheets his face fell. 

“This is bad,” said he to himself. “They’re as rotten as 
sheep.” And aloud to the Colonel — “I’m afraid we can’t 
spare you just yet. We want all we have, else I should have 
given you ten days to recover in.” 

The Colonel winced. “On my honor, Sir,” he returned, 
“there is not the least necessity to think of sparing us. My 
men have been rather mauled and upset without a fair return. 
They only want to go in somewhere where they can see what’s 
before them.” 

“Can’t say I think much of the Fore and Fit,” said the 
Brigadier in confidence to his Brigade-Major. “They’ve lost 
all their soldiering, and, by the trim of them, might have 
marched through the country from the other side. A more 
fagged-out set of men I never put eyes on.” 

“Oh, they’ll improve as the work goes on. The parade 
gloss has been rubbed off a little, but they’ll put on field 
polish before long,” said the Brigade-Major. “They’ve 
been mauled, and they quite don’t understand it.” 

They did not. All the hitting was on one side, and it 
was cruelly hard hitting with accessories that made them 
sick. There was also the real sickness that laid hold of a 
strong man and dragged him howling to the grave. Worst of 
all, their officers knew just as little of the country as the men 
themselves, and looked as if they did. The Fore and Aft 
were in a thoroughly unsatisfactory condition, but they 
believed that all would be well if they could once get a fair 
go-in at the enemy. Pot-shots up and down the valleys 
were unsatisfactory, and the bayonet never seemed to get a 
chance. Perhaps it was as well, for a long-limbed Afghan 
with a knife had a reach of eight feet, and could carry away 
lead that would disable three Englishmen. 

The Fore and Aft would like some rifle-practice at the 
enemy — all seven hundred . rifles blazing together. That 
wish showed the mood of the men. 

The Gurkhas walked into their camp, and in broken, 


60 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


Barrack-room English strove to fraternize with them; offered 
them pipes of tobacco and stood them treat at the canteen. 
But the Fore and Aft, not knowing much of the nature of the 
Gurkhas, treated them as they would treat any other “ nig- 
gers,” and the little men in green trotted back to their firm 
friends the Highlanders, and with many grins confided to 
them: “That dam white regiment no dam use. Sulky — 
ugh! Dirty — ugh! Hya, any tot for Johnny?” Whereat 
the Highlanders smote the Gurkhas as to the head, and told 
them not to vilify a British Regiment, and the Gurkhas 
grinned cavernously, for the Highlanders were their elder 
brothers and entitled to the privileges of kinship. The com- 
mon soldier who touches a Gurkha is more than likely to 
have his head sliced open. 

Three days later the Brigadier arranged a battle according 
to the rules of war and the peculiarity of the Afghan tempera- 
ment. The enemy were massing in inconvenient strength 
among the hills, and the moving of many green standards 
warned him that the tribes were “up” in aid of the Afghan 
regular troops. A Squadron and a half of Bengal Lancers 
represented the available Cavalry, and two screw-guns 
borrowed from a column thirty miles away, the Artillery at 
the General’s disposal. 

“If they stand, as I’ve a very strong notion that they 
will, I fancy we shall see an infantry fight that will be worth 
watching,” said the Brigadier. “We’ll do it in style. Each 
regiment shall be played into action by its Band, and we’ll 
hold the Cavalry in reserve.” 

“For all the reserve?” somebody asked. 

“For all the reserve; because we’re going to crumple 
them up,” said the Brigadier, who was an extraordinary 
Brigadier, and did not believe in the value of a reserve when 
dealing with Asiatics. Indeed, when you come to think of 
it, had the British Army consistently waited for reserves in all 
its little affairs, the boundaries of Our Empire would have 
stopped at Brighton beach. 

That battle was to be a glorious battle. 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 61 

The three regiments debouching from three separate 
gorges, after duly crowning the heights above, were to con- 
verge from the center, left, and right upon what we will call 
the Afghan army, then stationed toward the lower extremity 
of a flat-bottomed valley. Thus it will be seen that three 
sides of the valley practically belonged to the English, while 
the fourth was strictly Afghan property. In the event of 
defeat the Afghans had the rocky hills to fly to, where the 
fire from the guerilla tribes in aid would cover their retreat. 
In the event of victory these same tribes would rush down and 
lend their weight to the rout of the British. 

The screw-guns were to shell the head of each Afghan 
rush that was made in close formation, and the Cavalry, held 
in reserve in the right valley, were to gently stimulate the 
break-up which would follow on the combined attack. The 
Brigadier, sitting upon a rock overlooking the valley, would 
watch the battle unrolled at his feet. The Fore and Aft would 
debouch from the central gorge, the Gurkhas from the left, 
and the Highlanders from the right, for the reason that the 
left flank of the enemy seemed as though it required the most 
hammering. It was not every day that an Afghan force 
would take ground in the open, and the Brigadier was 
resolved to make the most of it. 

“If we only had a few more men,” he said plaintively, 
“we could surround the creatures and crumple ’em up 
thoroughly. As it is, I’m afraid we can only cut them up as 
they run. It’s a great pity.” 

The Fore and Aft had enjoyed unbroken peace for five 
days, and were beginning, in spite of dysentery, to recover 
their nerve. But they were not happy, for they did not know 
the work in hand, and had they known, would not have 
known how to do it. Throughout those five days in which 
old soldiers might have taught them the craft of the game, 
they discussed together their misadventures in the past — 
how such an one was alive at dawn and dead ere the dusk, 
and with what shrieks and struggles such another had given 
up his soul under the Afghan knife. Death was a new and 


62 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


horrible thing to the sons of mechanics who were used to die 
decently of zymotic disease; and their careful conservation in 
barracks had done nothing to make them look upon it with 
less dread. 

Very early in the dawn the bugles began to blow, and 
the Fore and Aft, filled with a misguided enthusiasm, turned 
out without waiting for a cup of coffee and a biscuit; and 
were rewarded by being kept under arms in the cold while the 
other regiments leisurely prepared for the fray. All the 
world knows that it is ill taking the breeks off a Highlander. 
It is much filer to try to make him stir unless he is convinced 
of the necessity for haste. 

The Fore and Aft waited, leaning upon their rifles and 
listening to the protests of their empty stomachs. The 
Colonel did his best to remedy the default of lining as soon 
as it was borne in upon him that the affair would not begin at 
once, and so well did he succeed that the coffee was just ready 
when — the men moved off, their Band leading. Even then 
there had been a mistake in time, and the Fore and Aft 
came out into the valley ten minutes before the proper 
hour. Their Band wheeled to the right after reaching the 
open, and retired behind a little rocky knoll still playing 
while the Regiment went past. 

It was not a pleasant sight that opened on the uninstructed 
view, for the lower end of the valley appeared to be filled by 
an army in position — real and actual regiments attired in 
red coats, and — of this there was no doubt — firing Martini- 
Henri bullets which cut up the ground a hundred yards in 
front of the leading company. Over that pock-marked ground 
the Regiment had to pass, and it opened the ball with a 
general and profound courtesy to the piping pickets; ducking 
in perfect time, as though it had been brazed on a rod. Being 
half-capable of thinking for itself, it fired a volley by the 
simple process of pitching its rifle into its shoulder and 
pulling the trigger. The bullets may have accounted for 
some of the watchers on the hillside, but they certainly 
did not affect the mass of enemy in front, while the noise 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 63 

of the rifles drowned any orders that might have been 
given. 

“Good God!” said the Brigadier, sitting on the rock high 
above all. “That regiment has spoilt the whole show. 
Hurry up the others, and let the screw-guns get off.” 

But the screw-guns, in working round the heights, had 
stumbled upon a wasp’s nest of a small mud fort which they 
incontinently shelled at eight hundred yards, to the huge 
discomfort of the occupants, who were unaccustomed to 
weapons of such devilish precision. 

The Fore and Aft continued to go forward but with 
shortened stride. Where were the other regiments, and 
why did these niggers use Martinis? They took open order 
instinctively, lying down and firing at random, rushing a 
few paces forward and lying down again, according to the 
regulations. Once in this formation, each man felt himself 
desperately alone, and edged in toward his fellow for com- 
fort’s sake. 

Then the crack of his neighbor’s rifle at his ear led him to 
fire as rapidly as he could — again for the sake of the comfort 
of the noise. The reward was not long delayed. Five volleys 
plunged the files in banked smoke impenetrable to the eye, 
and the bullets began to take ground twenty or thirty yards 
in front of the firers, as the weight of the bayonet dragged 
down and to the right arms wearied with holding the kick of 
the leaping Martini. The Company Commanders peered 
helplessly through the smoke, the more nervous mechanically 
trying to fan it away with their helmets. 

“High and to the left ! ” bawled a Captain till he was hoarse. 
“No good! Cease firing, and let it drift away a bit.” 

Three and four times the bugles shrieked the order, and 
when it was obeyed the Fore and Aft looked that their foe 
should be lying before them in mown swaths of men. A 
light wind drove the smoke to leeward, and showed the 
enemy still in position and apparently unaffected. A 
quarter of a ton of lead had been buried a furlong in front 
of them, as the ragged earth attested. 


64 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


That was not demoralizing to the Afghans, who have not 
European nerves. They were waiting for the mad riot to 
die down, and were firing quietly into the heart of the smoke. 
A private of the Fore and Aft spun up his company shrieking 
with agony, another was kicking the earth and gasping, and a 
third, ripped through the lower intestines by a jagged bullet, 
was calling aloud on his comrades to put him out of his pain. 
These were the casualties, and they were not soothing to 
hear or see. The smoke cleared to a dull haze. 

Then the foe began to shout with a great shouting and 
a mass — a black mass — detached itself from the main body, 
and rolled over the ground at horrid speed. It was composed 
of, perhaps, three hundred men, who would shout and fire and 
slash if the rush of their fifty comrades who were determined 
to die carried home. The fifty were Ghazis, half-maddened 
with drugs and wholly mad with religious fanaticism. When 
they rushed the British fire ceased, and in the lull the order 
was given to close ranks and meet them with the bayonet. 

Any one who knew the business could have told the Fore 
and Aft that the only way of dealing with a Ghazi rush is by 
volleys at long ranges; because a man who means to die, who 
desires to die, who will gain heaven by dying, must, in nine 
cases out of ten, kill a man wha has a lingering prejudice in 
favor of life. Where they should have closed and gone 
forward, the Fore and Aft opened out and skirmished, and 
where they should have opened out and fired, they closed 
and waited. 

A man dragged from his blankets half awake and unfed 
is never in a pleasant frame of mind. Nor does his happiness 
increase when he watches the whites of the eyes of three 
hundred six-foot fiends upon whose beards the foam is lying, 
upon whose tongues is a roar of wrath, and in whose hands are 
yard-long knives. 

The Fore and Aft heard the Gurkha bugles bringing that regi- 
ment forward at the double, while the neighing of the Highland 
pipes came from the left. They strove to stay where they 
were, though the bayonets wavered down the line like the 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 65 


oars of a ragged boat. Then they felt body to body the 
amazing physical strength of their foes; a shriek of pain 
ended the rush, and the knives fell amid scenes not to be told. 
The men clubbed together and smote blindly — as often as 
not at their own fellows. Their front crumpled like paper, 
and the fifty Ghazis passed on; their backers, now drunk 
with success, fighting as madly as they. 

Then the rear-ranks were bidden to close up, and the 
subalterns dashed into the stew — alone. For the rear-ranks 
had heard the clamor in front, the yells and the howls of 
pain, and had seen the dark stale blood that makes afraid. 
They were not going to stay. It was the rushing of the 
camps over again. Let their officers go to Hell, if they chose; 
they would get away from the knives. 

“Come on!” shrieked the subalterns, and their men 
cursing them, drew back, each closing into his neighbor and 
wheeling round. 

Charteris and Devlin, subalterns of the last company, 
faced their death alone in the belief that their men would 
follow. 

“You’ve killed me, you cowards,” sobbed Devlin and 
dropped, cut from the shoulder-strap to the center of the 
chest, and a fresh detachment of his men retreating, always 
retreating, trampled him under foot as they made for the 
pass whence they had emerged. 

I kissed her in the kitchen, and I kissed her in the hall. 

Child’um, child’um, follow me! 

Oh Golly, said the cook, is he gwine to kiss us all? 

Halla — Halla — Halla — Hallelujah ! 

The Gurkhas were pouring through the left gorge and 
j over the heights at the double to the invitation of their 
Regimental Quick-step. The black rocks were crowned 
with dark green spiders as the bugles gave tongue jubilantly: 

In the morning! In the morning by the bright light I 

When Gabriel blows his trumpet in the morning! 


66 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


The Gurkha rear-companies tripped and blundered over 
loose stones. The front-files halted for a moment to take 
stock of the valley and to settle stray boot-laces. Then a 
happy little sigh of contentment soughed down the ranks, 
and it was as though the land smiled, for behold there below 
was the enemy, and it was to meet them that the Gurkhas 
had doubled so hastily. There was much enemy. There 
would be amusement. The little men hitched their kukris 
well to hand, and gaped expectantly at their officers as 
terriers grin ere the stone is cast for them to fetch. The 
Gurkhas’ ground sloped downward to the valley, and they 
enjoyed a fair view of the proceedings. They sat upon the 
bowlders to watch, for their officers were not going to waste 
their wind in assisting to repulse a Ghazi rush more than 
half a mile away. Let the white men look to their own front. 

“Hi! yi!” said the Subadar-Major, who was sweating pro- 
fusely. “Dam fools yonder, stand close-order! This is no 
time for close order, it is the time for volleys. Ugh!” 

Horrified, amused, and indignant, the Gurkhas beheld 
the retirement of the Fore and Aft with a running chorus of 
oaths and commentaries. 

“They run! The white men run! Colonel Sahib, may 
we also do a little running?” murmured Runbir Thappa, the 
Senior Jemadar. 

But the Colonel would have none of it. “Let the beggars 
be cut up a little,” said he wrathfully. “’Serves ’em right. 
They’ll be prodded into facing round in a minute.” He 
looked through his field-glasses, and caught the glint of an 
officer’s sword. 

“Beating ’em with the flat — damned conscripts! How 
the Ghazis are walking into them ! ” said he. 

The Fore and Aft, heading back, bore with them their offi- 
cers. The narrowness of the pass forced the mob into solid 
formation, and the rear-ranks delivered some sort of a waver- 
ing volley. The Ghazis drew off, for they did not know 
what reserve the gorge might hide. Moreover, it was never 
wise to chase white men too far. They returned as wolves 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 67 


return to cover, satisfied with the slaughter that they had 
done, and only stopping to slash at the wounded on the 
ground. A quarter of a mile had the Fore and Aft retreated, 
and now, jammed in the pass, was quivering with pain, 
shaken and demoralized with fear, while the officers, mad- 
dened beyond control, smote the men with the hilts and the 
flats of their swords. 

“Get back! Get back, you cowards — you women! Right 
about face — column of companies, form — you hounds !” 
shouted the Colonel, and the subalterns swore aloud. But 
the Regiment wanted to go — to go anywhere out of the 
range of those merciless knives. It swayed to and fro ir- 
resolutely with shouts and outcries, while from the right the 
Gurkhas dropped volley after volley of cripple-stopper 
Snider bullets at long range into the mob of the Ghazis 
returning to their own troops. 

The Fore and Aft Band, though protected from direct 
fire by the rocky knoll under which it had sat down, fled at 
the first rush. Jakin and Lew would have fled also, but their 
short legs left them fifty yards in the rear, and by the time 
the Band had mixed with the Regiment, they were painfully 
aware that they would have to close in alone and unsup- 
ported. 

“Get back to that rock,” gasped Jakin. “They won’t see 
us there.” 

And they returned to the scattered instruments of the 
Band; their hearts nearly bursting their ribs. 

“Here’s a nice show for us” said Jakin, throwing him- 
self full length on the ground. “A bloomin’ fine show for 
British Infantry! Oh, the devils! They’ve gone an’ left 
us alone here! Wot’ll we do?” 

Lew took possession of a cast-off water bottle, which 
naturally was full of canteen rum, and drank till he coughed 
again. 

“Drink,” said he shortly. “They’ll come back in a min- 
ute or two — you see.” 

Jakin drank, but there was no sign of the Regiment’s 


68 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


return. They could hear a dull clamor from the head 
of the valley of retreat, and saw the Ghazis slink back, 
quickening their pace as the Gurkhas fired at them. 

“We’re all that’s left of the Band, an’ we’ll be cut up as 
sure as death,” said Jakin. 

“I’ll die game, then,” said Lew thickly, fumbling with 
his tiny drummer’s sword. The drink was working on his 
brain as it was on Jakin’s. 

“’Old on! I know something better than fightin’,” said 
Jakin, stung by the splendor of a sudden thought due 
chiefly to rum. “Tip our bloomin’ cowards yonder the 
word to come back. The Paythan beggars are well away. 
Come on, Lew! We won’t get hurt. Take the fife an’ give 
me the drum. The Old Step for all your bloomin’ guts are 
worth! There’s a few of our men coming back now. Stand 
up, ye drunken little defaulter. By your right — quick 
march!” 

He slipped the drum-sling over his shoulder, thrust the 
fife into Lew’s hand, and the two boys marched out of the 
cover of the rock into the open, making a hideous hash of 
the first bars of the “British Grenadiers.” 

As Lew had said, a few of the Fore and Aft were coming 
back sullenly and shamefacedly under the stimulus of blows 
and abuse; their red coats shone at the head of the valley, 
and behind them were wavering bayonets. But between 
this shattered line and the enemy, who with Afghan suspi- 
cion feared that the hasty retreat meant an ambush, and 
had not moved therefore, lay half a mile of a level ground 
dotted only by the wounded. 

The tune settled into full swing and the boys kept shoulder 
to shoulder, Jakin banging the drum as one possessed. The 
one fife made a thin and pitiful squeaking, but the tune 
carried far, even to the Gurkhas. 

“Come on, you dogs!” muttered Jakin to himself. “Are 
we to play forhever?” Lew was staring straight in front of 
him and marching more stiffly than ever he had done on 
parade. 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 69 


And in bitter mockery of the distant mob, the old tune 
of the Old Line shrilled and rattled : — 

Some talk of Alexander, 

And some of Hercules; 

Of Hector and Lysander, 

And such great names as these! 

There was a far-off clapping of hands from the Gurkhas, 
and a roar from the Highlanders in the distance, but never 
a shot was fired by British or Afghan. The two little red 
dots moved forward in the open parallel to the enemy’s front. 

But of all the world’s great heroes 
There’s none that can compare. 

With a tow-row-row-row-row-row. 

To the British Grenadier! 

The men of the Fore and Aft were gathering thick at the 
entrance into the plain. The Brigadier on the heights far 
above was speechless with rage. Still no movement from 
the enemy. The day stayed to watch the children. 

Jakin halted and beat the long roll of the Assembly, while 
the fife squealed despairingly. 

“Right about face! Hold up. Lew, you’re drunk,” said 
Jakin. They wheeled and marched back: — 

Those heroes of antiquity 
Ne’er saw a cannon-ball. 

Nor knew the force o’ powder, 

“Here they come!” said Jakin. “Go on, Lew”: — 

To scare their foes withal ! 

The Fore and Aft were pouring out of the valley. What 
officers had said to men in that time of shame and humili- 
ation will never be known; for neither officers nor men 
speak of it now. 

“They are coming anew!” shouted a priest among the 
Afghans. “Do not kill the boys! Take them alive, and 
they shall be of our faith.” 


70 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


But the first volley had been fired, and Lew dropped on 
his face. Jakin stood for a minute, spun round and col- 
lapsed, as the Fore and Aft came forward, the curses of their 
officers in their ears, and in their hearts the shame of open 
shame. 

Half the men had seen the drummers die, and they made 
no sign. They did not even shout. They doubled out 
straight across the plain in open order, and they did not fire. 

“This,” said the Colonel of Gurkhas, softly, “is the real 
attack, as it should have been delivered. Come on, my 
children.” 

“ Ulu-lu-lu-lu ! ” squealed the Gurkhas, and came down 
with a joyful clicking of kukris — those vicious Gurkha knives. 

On the right there was no rush. The Highlanders, cannily 
commending their souls to God (for it matters as much to a 
dead man whether he has been shot in a Border scuffle or at 
Waterloo), opened out and fired according to their custom, 
that is to say without heat and without intervals, while the 
screw-guns, having disposed of the impertinent mud fort 
aforementioned, dropped shell after shell into the clusters 
round the flickering green standards on the heights. 

“Charrging is an unfortunate necessity,” murmured the 
Color-Sergeant of the right company of the Highlanders. 
“It makes the men sweer so, but I am thinkhT that it will 
come to a charrge if these black devils stand much longer. 
Stewarrt, man, you’re firing into the eye of the sun, and 
he’ll not take any harm for Government ammuneetion. 
A foot lower and a great deal slower! What are the Eng- 
lish doing? They’re very quiet there in the center. Run- 
ning again?” 

The English were not running. They were hacking and 
hewing and stabbing, for though one white man is seldom 
physically a match for an Afghan in a sheepskin or wadded 
coat, yet, through the pressure of many white men behind, 
and a certain thirst for revenge in his heart, he becomes 
capable of doing much with both ends of his rifle. The 
Fore and Aft held their fire till one bullet could drive through 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 71 

five or six men, and the front of the Afghan force gave on 
the volley. They then selected their men, and slew them 
with deep gasps and short hacking coughs, and groanings 
of leather belts against strained bodies, and realized for the 
first time that an Afghan attacked is far less formidable 
than an Afghan attacking; which fact old soldiers might have 
told them. 

But they had no old soldiers in their ranks. 

The Gurkhas’ stall at the bazar was the noisiest, for the 
men were engaged — to a nasty noise as of beef being cut 
on the block — with the kukri , which they preferred to the 
bayonet; well knowing how the Afghan hates the half -moon 
blade. 

As the Afghans wavered, the green standards on the 
mountain moved down to assist them in a last rally. This 
was unwise. The Lancers chafing in the right gorge had 
thrice dispatched their only subaltern as galloper to re- 
port on the progress of affairs. On the third occasion he 
returned, with a bullet-graze on his knee, swearing strange 
oaths in Hindustani, and saying that all things were ready. 
So that Squadron swung round the right of the Highlanders 
with a wicked whistling of wind in the pennons of its lances, 
and fell upon the remnant just when, according to all the 
rules of war, it should have waited for the foe to show more 
signs of wavering. 

But it was a dainty charge, deftly delivered, and it ended 
by the Cavalry finding itself at the head of the pass by which 
the Afghans intended to retreat; and down the track that 
the lances had made streamed two companies of the High- 
landers, which was never intended by the Brigadier. The 
new development was successful. It detached the enemy 
from his base as a sponge is torn from a rock, and left him 
ringed about with fire in that pitiless plain. And as a sponge 
is chased round the bath-tub by the hand of the bather, so 
were the Afghans chased till they broke into little de- 
tachments much more difficult to dispose of than large 
masses. 


72 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“See!” quoth the Brigadier. “Everything has come as I 
arranged. We’ve cut their base, and now we’ll bucket ’em 
to pieces.” 

A direct hammering was all that the Brigadier had dared 
to hope for, considering the size of the force at his disposal; 
but men who stand or fall by the errors of their opponents 
may be forgiven for turning Chance into Design. The 
bucketing went forward merrily. The Afghan forces were 
upon the run — the run of wearied wolves who snarl and bite 
over their shoulders. The red lances dipped by twos and 
threes, and, with a shriek, uprose the lance-butt, like a spar 
on a stormy sea, as the trooper cantering forward cleared his 
point. The Lancers kept between their prey and the steep 
hills, for all who could were trying to escape from the valley 
of death. The Highlanders gave the fugitives two hundred 
yards’ law, and then brought them down, gasping and chok- 
ing ere they could reach the protection of the bowlders above. 
The Gurkhas followed suit; but the Fore and Aft were killing 
on their own account, for they had penned a mass of men be- 
tween their bayonets and a wall of rock, and the flash of the 
rifles was lighting the wadded coats. 

“We cannot hold them, Captain Sahib!” panted a Res- 
saidar of Lancers. “Let us try the carbine. The lance is 
good, but it wastes time.” 

They tried the carbine, and still the enemy melted away 
— fled up the hills by hundreds when there were only twenty 
bullets to stop them. On the heights the screw-guns ceased 
firing — they had run out of ammunition — and the Brigadier 
groaned, for the musketry fire could not sufficiently smash 
the retreat. Long before the last volleys were fired, the 
doolies were out in force looking for the wounded. The 
battle was over, and, but for want of fresh troops, the 
Afghans would have been wiped off the earth. As it was 
they counted their dead by hundreds, and nowhere were the 
dead thicker than in the track of the Fore and Aft. 

But the Regiment did not cheer with the Highlanders, 
nor did they dance uncouth dances with the Gurkhas among 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT 73 


the dead. They looked under their brows at the Colonel 
as they leaned upon their rifles and panted. 

“Get back to camp, you. Haven’t you disgraced your- 
self enough for one day! Go and look to the wounded. 
It’s all you’re fit for,” said the Colonel. Yet for the past 
hour the Fore and Aft had been doing all that mortal com- 
mander could expect. They had lost heavily because they 
did not know how to set about their business with proper 
skill, but they had borne themselves gallantly, and this was 
their reward. 

A young and sprightly Color-Sergeant, who had begun to 
imagine himself a hero, offered his water bottle to a High- 
lander, whose tongue was black with thirst. “I drink with 
no cowards,” answered the youngster huskily, and, turning 
to a Gurkha, said, “Hya, Johnny! Drink water got it?” 
The Gurkha grinned and passed his bottle. The Fore and 
Aft said no word. 

They went back to camp when the field of strife had 
been a little mopped up and made presentable, and the 
Brigadier, who saw himself a Knight in three months, 
was the only soul who was complimentary to them. The 
Colonel was heartbroken, and the officers were savage and 
sullen. 

“Well,” said the Brigadier, “they are young troops of 
course, and it was not unnatural that they should retire in 
disorder for a bit.” 

“Oh, my only Aunt Maria!” murmured a junior Staff 
Officer. “ Retire in disorder ! It was a bally run ! ” 

“But they came again as we all know,” cooed the Brig- 
adier, the Colonel’s ashy-white face before him, “and they 
behaved as well as could possibly be expected. Behaved 
beautifully, indeed. I was watching them. It’s not a 
matter to take to heart, Colonel. As some German General 
said of his men, they wanted to be shooted over a little, 
that was all.” To himself he said — “Now they’re blooded 
I can give ’em responsible work. It’s as well that they got 
what they did. ’Teach ’em more than half a dozen rifle 


74 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


flirtations, that will — later — run alone and bite. Poor old 
Colonel, though.” 

All that afternoon the heliograph winked and flickered 
on the hills, striving to tell the good news to a mountain 
forty miles away. And in the evening there arrived, dusty, 
sweating, and sore, a misguided Correspondent who had 
gone out to assist at a trumpery village-burning, and who 
had read off the message from afar, cursing his luck the while. 

“Let’s have the details somehow — as full as ever you can, 
please. It’s the first time I’ve ever been left this campaign,” 
said the Correspondent to the Brigadier, and the Brigadier, 
nothing loth, told him how an Army of Communication had 
been crumpled up, destroyed, and all but annihilated by the 
craft, strategy, wisdom, and foresight of the Brigadier. 

But some say, and among these be the Gurkhas who 
watched on the hillside, that that battle was won by Jakin 
and Lew, whose little bodies were borne up just in time to 
fit two gaps at the head of the big ditch-grave for the dead 
under the heights of Jagai. 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW 


( 1889 ) 

May no ill dreams disturb my rest. 

Nor Powers of Darkness me molest. 

Evening Hymn. 


One of the few advantages that India has over England is 
a great Knowability. After five years’ service a man is 
directly or indirectly acquainted with the two or three 
hundred Civilians in his Province, all the Messes of ten 
or twelve Regiments and Batteries, and some fifteen hun- 
dred other people of the non-official caste. In ten years his 
knowledge should be doubled, and at the end of twenty 
years he knows, or knows something about, every English- 
man in the Empire, and may travel anywhere and every- 
where without paying hotel-bills. 

Globe-trotters who expect entertainment as a right, 
have, even within my memory, blunted this open-heart- 
edness, but none the less to-day, if you belong to the Inner 
Circle and are neither a Bear nor a Black Sheep, all houses 
are open to you, and our small world is very, very kind and 
helpful. 

Rickett of Kamartha stayed with Polder of Kumaon 
some fifteen years ago. He meant to stay two nights, but 
was knocked down by rheumatic fever, and for six weeks 
disorganized Polder’s establishment, stopped Polder’s work, 
and nearly died in Polder’s bedroom. Polder behaves as 
though he had been placed under eternal obligation by 
Rickett, and yearly sends the little Ricketts a box of presents 
and toys. It is the same everywhere. The men who do not 
take the trouble to conceal from you their opinion that you 

75 


76 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


are an incompetent ass, and the women who blacken your 
character and misunderstand your wife’s amusements, will 
work themselves to the bone in your behalf if you fall sick 
or into serious trouble. 

Heatherlegh, the Doctor, kept, in addition to his regular 
practice, a hospital on his private account — an arrangement 
of loose boxes for Incurables, his friends called it — but it was 
really a sort of fitting-up shed for craft that had been dam- 
aged by stress of weather. The weather in India is often 
sultry, and since the tale of bricks is always a fixed quantity, 
and the only liberty allowed is permission to work overtime 
and get no thanks, men occasionally break down and become 
as mixed as the metaphors in this sentence. 

Heatherlegh is the dearest doctor that ever was, and 
his invariable prescription to all his patients is, “Lie low, 
go slow, and keep cool.” He says that more men are killed 
by overwork than the importance of this world justifies. He 
maintains that overwork slew Pansay, who died under his 
hands about three years ago. He has, of course, the right 
to speak authoritatively, and he laughs at my theory that 
there was a crack in Pansay’s head and a little bit of the 
Dark World came through and pressed him to death. “ Pan- 
say went off the handle,” says Heatherlegh, “after the stimu- 
lus of long leave at Home. He may or he may not have be- 
haved like a blackguard to Mrs. Keith-Wessington. My 
notion is that the work of the Katabundi Settlement ran him 
off his legs, and that he took to brooding and making much of 
an ordinary P. & O. flirtation. He certainly was engaged to 
Miss Mannering, and she certainly broke off the engage- 
ment. Then he took a feverish chill and all that nonsense 
about ghosts developed. Overwork started his illness, kept 
it alight, and killed him, poor devil. Write him off to the 
System that uses one man to do the work of two and a half 
men.” 

I do not believe this. I used to sit up with Pansay some- 
times when Heatherlegh was called out to patients and I 
happened to be within claim. The man would make me 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW 


77 


most unhappy by describing in a low, even voice, the pro- 
cession that was always passing at the bottom of his bed. 
He had a sick man’s command of language. When he re- 
covered I suggested that he should write out the whole 
affair from beginning to end, knowing that ink might assist 
him to ease his mind. 

He was in a high fever while he was writing, and the blood- 
and-thunder Magazine diction he adopted did not calm him. 
Two months afterwards he was reported fit for duty, but, in 
spite of the fact that he was urgently needed to help an under- 
manned Commission stagger through a deficit, he preferred 
to die; vowing at the last that he was hag-ridden. I got his 
manuscript before he died, and this is his version of the affair, 
dated 1885, exactly as he wrote it: — 

My doctor tells me that I need rest and change of air. It 
is not improbable that I shall get both ere long — rest that 
neither the red-coated messenger nor the mid-day gun can 
break, and change of air far beyond that which any home- 
ward-bound steamer can give me. In the meantime I am 
resolved to stay where I am; and, in flat defiance of my 
doctor’s orders, to take all the world into my confidence. 
You shall learn for yourselves the precise nature of my malady, 
and shall, too, judge for yourselves whether any man born 
of woman on this weary earth was ever so tormented as I. 

Speaking now as a condemned criminal might speak ere 
the drop-bolts are drawn, my story, wild and hideously im- 
probable as it may appear, demands at least attention. That 
it will ever receive credence I utterly disbelieve. Two 
months ago I should have scouted as mad or drunk the man 
who had dared tell me the like. Two months ago I was the 
happiest man in India. To-day, from Peshawar to the sea, 
there is no one more wretched. My doctor and I are the 
only two who know this. His explanation is, that my brain, 
digestion, and eyesight are all slightly affected; giving rise to 
my frequent and persistent “delusions.” Delusions, in- 
deed ! I call him a fool; but he attends me still with the same 
unwearied smile, the same bland professional manner, the 


78 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


same neatly-trimmed red whiskers, till I begin to suspect 
that I am an ungrateful, evil-tempered invalid. But you 
shall judge for yourselves. 

Three years ago it was my fortune — my great misfortune — 
to sail from Gravesend to Bombay, on return from long leave, 
with one Agnes Keith-Wessington, wife of an officer on the 
Bombay side. It does not in the least concern you to know 
what manner of woman she was. Be content with the 
knowledge that, ere the voyage had ended, both she and I 
were desperately and unreasoningly in love with one another. 
Heaven knows that I can make the admission now without 
one particle of vanity. In matters of this sort there is al- 
ways one who gives and another who accepts. From the 
first day of our ill-omened attachment, I was conscious that 
Agnes’s passion was a stronger, a more dominant, and — if I 
may use the expression — a purer sentiment than mine. 
Whether she recognized the fact then, I do not know. After- 
wards it was bitterly plain to both of us. 

Arrived at Bombay in the spring of the year, we went our 
respective ways, to meet no more for the next three or four 
months, when my leave and her love took us both to Simla. 
There we spent the season together; and there my fire of 
straw burnt itself out to a pitiful end with the closing year. 
I attempt no excuse. I make no apology. Mrs. Wessing- 
ton had given up much for my sake, and was prepared to give 
up all. From my own lips, in August, 1882, she learnt that 
I was sick of her presence, tired of her company, and weary of 
the sound of her voice. Ninety-nine women out of a hun- 
dred would have wearied of me as I wearied of them; seventy- 
five of that number would have promptly avenged themselves 
by active and obtrusive flirtation with other men. Mrs. 
Wessington was the hundredth. On her neither my openly- 
expressed aversion nor the cutting brutalities with which I 
garnished our interviews had the least effect. 

“Jack, darling!” was her one eternal cuckoo cry: “I’m 
sure it’s all a mistake — a hideous mistake; and we’ll be good 
friends again some day. Please forgive me, Jack, dear.” 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW 


79 


I was the offender, and I knew it. That knowledge trans- 
formed my pity into passive endurance, and, eventually into 
blind hate — the same instinct, I suppose, which prompts a 
man to savagely stamp on the spider he has but half killed. 
And with this hate in my bosom the season of 1882 came to 
an end. 

Next year we met again at Simla — she with her monoto- 
nous face and timid attempts at reconciliation, and I with 
loathing of her in every fiber of my frame. Several times I 
could not avoid meeting her alone; and on each occasion her 
words were identically the same. Still the unreasoning wail 
that it was all a “mistake”; and still the hope of eventually 
“making friends.” I might have seen, had I cared to look, 
that that hope only was keeping her alive. She grew more 
wan and thin month by month. You will agree with me, at 
least, that such conduct would have driven any one to de- 
spair. It was uncalled for; childish; unwomanly. I main- 
tain that she was much to blame. And again, sometimes, in 
the black, fever-stricken night-watches, I have begun to think 
that I might have been a little kinder to her. But that 
really is a “delusion.” I could not have continued pretend- 
ing to love her when I didn’t; could I? It would have been 
unfair to us both. 

Last year we met again — on the same terms as before. 
The same weary appeals, and the same curt answers from my 
lips. At least I would make her see how wholly wrong and 
hopeless were her attempts at resuming the old relationship. 
As the season wore on, we fell apart — that is to say, she found 
it difficult to meet me, for I had other and more absorbing 
interests to attend to. When I think it over quietly in my 
sick-room, the season of 1884 seems a confused nightmare 
wherein light and shade were fantastically intermingled — my 
courtship of little Kitty Mannering; my hopes, doubts, and 
fears; our long rides together; my trembling avowal of at- 
tachment; her reply; and now and again a vision of a white 
face flitting by in the ’rickshaw with the black and white 
liveries I once watched for so earnestly; the wave of Mrs. 


80 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


Wessington’s gloved hand; and, when she met me alone, 
which was but seldom, the irksome monotony of her appeal. 
I loved Kitty Mannering; honestly, heartily loved her, and 
with my love for her grew my hatred for Agnes. In August 
Kitty and I were engaged. The next day I met those ac- 
cursed “mag-pie” jhampanies at the back of Jakko, and, 
moved by some passing sentiment of pity, stopped to tell 
Mrs. Wessington everything. She knew it already. 

“So I hear you’re engaged, Jack dear.” Then, with- 
out a moment’s pause: “I’m sure it’s all a mistake — a 
hideous mistake. We shall be as good friends some day, 
Jack, as we ever were.” 

My answer might have made even a man wince. It cut 
the dying woman before me like the blow of a whip. “Please 
forgive me, Jack; I didn’t mean to make you angry; but it’s 
true, it’s true ! ” 

And Mrs. Wessington broke down completely. I turned 
away and left her to finish her journey in peace, feeling, but 
only for a moment or two, that I had been an unutterably 
mean hound. I looked back, and saw that she had turned 
her ’rickshaw with the idea, I suppose, of overtaking me. 

The scene and its surroundings were photographed on my 
memory. The rain-swept sky (we were at the end of the wet 
weather), the sodden, dingy pines, the muddy road, and the 
black powder-riven cliffs formed a gloomy background 
against which the black and white liveries of the jhampanies , 
the yellow-paneled ’rickshaw and Mrs. Wessington’s down- 
bowed golden head stood out clearly. She was holding her 
handkerchief in her left hand and was leaning back exhausted 
against the ’rickshaw cushions. I turned my horse up a 
bypath near the Sanjowlie Reservoir and literally ran away. 
Once I fancied I heard a faint call of “Jack!” This may 
have been imagination. I never stopped to verify it. Ten 
minutes later I came across Kitty on horseback; and, in the 
delight of a long ride with her, forgot all about the inter- 
view. 

A week later Mrs. Wessington died, and the inexpressible 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW 


81 


burden of her existence was removed from my life. I went 
Plainsward perfectly happy. Before three months were 
over I had forgotten all about her, except that at times the 
discovery of some of her older letters reminded me unpleas- 
antly of our bygone relationship. By January I had dis- 
interred what was left of our correspondence from among 
my scattered belongings and had burnt it. At the beginning 
of April of this year, 1885, I was at Simla — semi-deserted 
Simla — once more, and was deep in lover’s talks and walks 
with Kitty . It was decided that we should be married at 
the end of June. You will understand, therefore, that, lov- 
ing Kitty as I did, I am not saying too much when I pro- 
nounced myself to have been, at that time, the happiest man 
in India. 

Fourteen delightful days passed almost before I noticed 
their flight. Then, aroused to the sense of what was proper 
among mortals circumstanced as we were, I pointed out to 
Kitty that an engagement ring was the outward and visible 
sign of her dignity as an engaged girl; and that she must forth- 
with come to Hamilton’s to be measured for one. Up to 
that moment, I give you my word, we had completely for- 
gotten so trivial a matter. To Hamilton’s we accordingly 
went on the 15th of April, 1885. Remember that — whatever 
my doctor may say to the contrary — I was then in perfect 
health, enjoying a well-balanced mind and an absolutely 
tranquil spirit. Kitty and I entered Hamilton’s shop to- 
gether, and there, regardless of the order of affairs, I meas- 
ured Kitty for the ring in the presence of the amused assis- 
tant. The ring was a sapphire with two diamonds. We 
then rode out down the slope that leads to the Combermere 
Bridge and Peliti’s shop. 

While my Waler was cautiously feeling his way over the 
loose shale, and Kitty was laughing and chattering at my 
side — while all Simla, that is to say as much of it as had then 
come from the Plains, was grouped round the Reading-room 
and Peliti’s veranda, — I was aware that someone, apparently 
at a vast distance, was calling me by my Christian name. 


82 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


It struck me that I had heard the voice before, but when and 
where I could not at once determine. In the short space it 
took to cover the road between the path from Hamilton’s 
shop and the first plank of the Combermere Bridge I had 
thought over half a dozen people who might have committed 
such a solecism, and had eventually decided that it must 
have been some singing in my ears. Immediately opposite 
Peliti’s shop my eye was arrested by the sight of four jham- 
panies in “mag-pie” livery, pulling a yellow-paneled, cheap, 
bazar ’rickshaw. In a moment my mind flew back to the 
previous season and Mrs. Wessington with a sense of irrita- 
tion and disgust. Was it not enough that the woman was 
dead and done with, without her black and white servitors 
reappearing to spoil the day’s happiness? Whoever em- 
ployed them now I thought I would call upon, and ask as a 
personal favor to change her jhampanies’ livery. I would hire 
the men myself, and, if necessary, buy their coats from off 
their backs. It is impossible to say here what a flood of 
undesirable memories their presence evoked. 

“Kitty,” I cried, “there are poor Mrs. Wessington’s 
jhampanies turned up again! I wonder who has them 
now?” 

Kitty had known Mrs. Wessington slightly last season, and 
had always been interested in the sickly woman. 

“What? Where?” she asked. “I can’t see them any- 
where.” 

Even as she spoke, her horse, swerving from a laden mule, 
threw himself directly in front of the advancing ’rickshaw. 
I had scarcely time to utter a word of warning when to my 
unutterable horror, horse and rider passed through men and 
carriage as if they had been thin air. 

“What’s the matter?” cried Kitty; “what made you call 
out so foolishly, Jack? If I am engaged I don’t want all 
creation to know about it. There was lots of space between 

the mule and the veranda; and, if you think I can’t ride 

There!” 

Whereupon wilful Kitty set off, her dainty little head in 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW 


83 


the air, at a hand-gallop in the direction of the Band-stand; 
fully expecting, as she herself afterwards told me, that I 
should follow her. What was the matter? Nothing in- 
deed. Either that I was mad or drunk, or that Simla was 
haunted with devils. I reined in my impatient cob, and 
turned round. The ’rickshaw had turned too, and now 
stood immediately facing me, near the left railing of the 
Combermere Bridge. 

“Jack! Jack, darling.” (There was no mistake about 
the words this time: they rang through my brain as if they 
had been shouted in my ear.) “It’s some hideous mistake, 
I’m sure. Please forgive me, Jack, and let’s be friends 
again.” 

The ’rickshaw-hood had fallen back, and inside, as I hope 
and pray daily for the death I dread by night, sat Mrs. 
Keith-Wessington, handkerchief in hand, and golden head 
bowed on her breast. 

How long I stared motionless I do not know. Finally, I 
was aroused by my syce taking the Waler’s bridle and asking 
whether I was ill. From the horrible to the commonplace 
is but a step. I tumbled off my horse and dashed, half 
fainting, into Peliti’s for a glass of cherry-brandy. There 
two or three couples were gathered round the coffee-tables 
discussing the gossip of the day. Their trivialities were 
more comforting to me just then than the consolations of 
religion could have been. I plunged into the midst of the 
conversation at once; chatted, laughed, and jested with a 
face (when I caught a glimpse of it in a mirror) as white and 
drawn as that of a corpse. Three or four men noticed my 
condition; and, evidently setting it down to the results of 
over-many pegs, charitably endeavored to draw me apart 
from the rest of the loungers. But I refused to be led away. 
I wanted the company of my kind — as a child rushes into 
the midst of the dinner-party after a fright in the dark. I 
must have talked for about ten minutes or so, though it 
seemed an eternity to me, when I heard Kitty’s clear voice 
outside inquiring for me. In another minute she had entered 


84 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


the shop, prepared to upbraid me for failing so signally in my 
duties. Something in my face stopped her. 

“Why, Jack,” she cried, “what have you been doing? 
What has happened? Are you ill?” Thus driven into a 
direct lie, I said that the sun had been a little too much for 
me. It was close upon five o’clock of a cloudy April after- 
noon, and the sun had been hidden all day. I saw my mis- 
take as soon as the words were out of my mouth : attempted 
to recover it; blundered hopelessly and followed Kitty, in a 
regal rage, out of doors, amid the smiles of my acquaintances. 
I made some excuse (I have forgotten what) on the score of 
my feeling faint; and cantered away to my hotel, leaving 
Kitty to finish the ride by herself. 

In my room I sat down and tried calmly to reason out the 
matter. Here was I, Theobald Jack Pansay, a well-educated 
Bengal Civilian in the year of grace 1885, presumably sane, 
certainly healthy, driven in terror from my sweetheart’s 
side by the apparition of a woman who had been dead and 
buried eight months ago. These were facts that I could not 
blink. Nothing was further from my thought than any 
memory of Mrs. Wessington when Kitty and I left Hamilton’s 
shop. Nothing was more utterly commonplace than the 
stretch of wall opposite Peliti’s. It was broad daylight. The 
road was full of people; and yet here, look you, in defiance 
of every law of probability, in direct outrage of Nature’s 
ordinance, there had appeared to me a face from the grave. 

Kitty’s Arab had gone through the ’rickshaw: so that my 
first hope that some woman marvelously like Mrs. Wes- 
sington had hired the carriage and the coolies with their 
old livery was lost. Again and again I went round this 
treadmill of thought; and again and again gave up baffled 
and in despair. The voice was as inexplicable as the ap- 
parition. I had originally some wild notion of confiding it 
all to Kitty; of begging her to marry me at once; and in her 
arms defying the ghostly occupant of the ’rickshaw. “After 
all,” I argued, “the presence of the ’rickshaw is in itself 
enough to prove the existence of a spectral illusion. One 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW 85 

may see ghosts of men and women, but surely never coolies 
and carriages. The whole thing is absurd. Fancy the ghost 
of a hillman!” 

Next morning I sent a penitent note to Kitty, imploring 
her to overlook my strange conduct of the previous after- 
noon. My Divinity was still very wroth, and a personal 
apology was necessary. I explained, with a fluency born 
of night-long pondering over a falsehood, that I had been 
attacked with a sudden palpitation of the heart — the re- 
sult of indigestion. This eminently practical solution had 
its effect: and Kitty and I rode out that afternoon with the 
shadow of my first lie dividing us. 

Nothing would please her save a canter round Jakko. 
With my nerves still unstrung from the previous night I 
feebly protested against the notion, suggesting Observatory 
Hill, Jutogh, the Boileaugunge road — anything rather than 
the Jakko round. Kitty was angry and a little hurt; so I 
yielded from fear of provoking further misunderstanding, 
and we set out together toward Chota Simla. We walked 
a greater part of the way, and, according to our custom, 
cantered from a mile or so below the Convent to the stretch 
of level road by the Sanjowlie Reservoir. The wretched 
horses appeared to fly, and my heart beat quicker and quicker 
as we neared the crest of the ascent. My mind had been full 
of Mrs. Wessington all the afternoon; and every inch of the 
Jakko road bore witness to our old-time walks and talks. 
The bowlders were full of it; the pines sang it aloud over- 
head; the rain-fed torrents giggled and chuckled unseen over 
the shameful story; and the wind in my ears chanted the 
iniquity aloud. 

As a fitting climax, in the middle of the level men call the 
Ladies’ Mile the Horror was awaiting me. No other ’rick- 
shaw was in sight — only the four black and white jhampanies , 
the yellow-paneled carriage, and the golden head of the 
woman within — all apparently just as I had left them eight 
months and one fortnight ago! For an instant I fancied 
that Kitty must see what I saw — we were so marvelously 


86 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


sympathetic in all things. Her next words undeceived me — 
“Not a soul in sight! Come along, Jack, and I’ll race you to 
the Reservoir buildings!” Her wiry little Arab was off like 
a bird, my Waler following close behind, and in this order 
we dashed under the cliffs. Half a minute brought us within 
fifty yards of the ’rickshaw. I pulled my Waler and fell 
back a little. The ’rickshaw was directly in the middle of 
the road; and once more the Arab passed through it, my 
horse following. “Jack! Jack, dear! Please forgive me,” 
rang with a wail in my ears, and, after an interval: “It’s all 
a mistake, a hideous mistake!” 

I spurred my horse like a man possessed. When I turned 
my head at the Reservoir works, the black and white liveries 
were still waiting — patiently waiting — under the gray hill- 
side, and the wind brought me a mocking echo of the words 
I had just heard. Kitty bantered me a good deal on my 
silence throughout the remainder of the ride. I had been 
talking up till then wildly and at random. To save my life 
I could not speak afterwards naturally, and from Sanjowlie 
to the Church wisely held my tongue. 

I was to dine with the Mannerings that night, and had 
barely time to canter home to dress. On the road to Ely- 
sium Hill I overheard two men talking together in the dusk — 
“It’s a curious thing,” said one, “how completely all trace 
of it disappeared. You know my wife was insanely fond of 
the woman (never could see anything in her myself), and 
wanted me to pick up her old ’rickshaw and coolies if they 
were to be got for love or money. Morbid sort of fancy I 
call it; but I’ve got to do what the Memsahib tells me. 
Would you believe that the man she hired it from tells me 
that all four of the men — they were brothers — died of cholera 
on the way to Hardwar, poor devils; and the ’rickshaw has 
been broken up by the man himself. ’Told me he never 
used a dead Memsahib' s ’rickshaw. ’Spoilt his luck. Queer 
notion, wasn’t it? Fancy poor little Mrs. Wessington spoil- 
ing any one’s luck except her own ! ” I laughed aloud at this 
point; and my laugh jarred on me as I uttered it. So there 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW 


87 


were ghosts of ’rickshaws after all, and ghostly employments 
in the other world! How much did Mrs. Wessington give 
her men? What were their hours? Where did they go? 

And for visible answer to my last question I saw the in- 
fernal Thing blocking my path in the twilight. The dead 
travel fast, and by short cuts unknown to ordinary coolies. 
I laughed aloud a second time and checked my laughter sud- 
denly, for I was afraid I was going mad. Mad to a certain 
extent I must have been, for I recollect that 1 reined in my 
horse at the head of the ’rickshaw, and politely wished Mrs. 
Wessington “Good-evening.” Her answer was one I knew 
only too well. I listened to the end; and replied that I had 
heard it all before, but should be delighted if she had any- 
thing further to say. Some malignant devil stronger than I 
must have entered into me that evening, for I have a dim 
recollection of talking the commonplaces of the day for five 
minutes to the Thing in front of me. 

“Mad as a hatter, poor devil — or drunk. Max, try and 
get him to come home.” 

Surely that was not Mrs. Wessington’s voice! The two 
men had overheard me speaking to the empty air, and had 
returned to look after me. They were very kind and con- 
siderate and from their words evidently gathered that I 
was extremely drunk. I thanked them confusedly and can- 
tered away to my hotel, there changed, and arrived at the 
Mannerings’ ten minutes late. I pleaded the darkness of 
the night as an excuse; was rebuked by Kitty for my unlover- 
like tardiness; and sat down. 

The conversation had already become general; and under 
cover of it, I was addressing some tender small talk to my 
sweetheart when I was aware that at the further end of the 
table a short red-whiskered man was describing, with much 
broidery, his encounter with a mad unknown that evening. 

A few sentences convinced me that he was repeating the 
incident of half an hour ago. In the middle of the story he 
looked round for applause, as professional story-tellers do, 
caught my eye, and straightway collapsed. There was a 


88 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


moment’s awkward silence, and the red-whiskered man 
muttered something to the effect that he had “forgotten the 
rest,” thereby sacrificing a reputation as a good story-teller 
which he had built up for six seasons past. I blessed him 
from the bottom of my heart, and — went on with my fish. 

In the fulness of time that dinner came to an end; and with 
genuine regret I tore myself away from Kitty — as certain as 
I was of my own existence that It would be waiting for me 
outside the door. The red-whiskered man, who had been 
introduced to me as Doctor Heatherlegh of Simla, volun- 
teered to bear me company as far as our roads lay together. 
I accepted his offer with gratitude. 

My instinct had not deceived me. It lay in readiness in 
the Mall, and, in what seemed devilish mockery of our 
ways, with a lighted head-lamp. The red-whiskered man 
went to the point at once, in a manner that showed he had 
been thinking over it all dinner-time. 

“I say, Pansay, what the deuce was the matter with you 
this evening on the Elysium Road?” The suddenness of 
the question wrenched an answer from me before I was 
aware. 

“That!” said I, pointing to It. 

“ That may be either D. T. or Eyes for aught I know. 
Now you don’t liquor. I saw as much at dinner, so it 
can’t be D. T.. There’s nothing whatever where you’re 
pointing, though you’re sweating and trembling with fright, 
like a scared pony. Therefore, I conclude that it’s Eyes. 
And I ought to understand all about them. Come along 
home with me. I’m on the Blessington lower road.” 

To my intense delight the ’rickshaw instead of waiting for 
us kept about twenty yards ahead — and this, too, whether 
we walked, trotted, or cantered. In the course of that long 
night ride I had told my companion almost as much as 1 
have told you here. 

“Well, you’ve spoilt one of the best tales I’ve ever laid 
tongue to,” said he, “but I’ll forgive you for the sake of what 
you’ve gone through. Now come home and do what I tell 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW 


89 


you; and when I’ve cured you, young man, let this be a lesson 
to you to steer clear of women and indigestible food till the 
day of your death.” 

The ’rickshaw kept steady in front; and my red-whiskered 
friend seemed to derive great pleasure from my account of 
its exact whereabouts. 

“Eyes, Pansay — all Eyes, Brain, and Stomach. And the 
greatest of these is Stomach. You’ve too much conceited 
Brain, too little Stomach, and thoroughly unhealthy eyes. 
Get your Stomach straight and the rest follows. And all 
that’s French for a liver pill. I’ll take sole medical charge 
cf you from this hour! for you’re too interesting a phe- 
nomenon to be passed over.” 

By this time we were deep in the shadow of the Blessington 
lower road and the ’rickshaw came to a dead stop under a 
pine-clad, overhanging shale cliff. Instinctively I halted 
too, giving my reason. Heatherlegh rapped out an oath. 

“Now, if you think I’m going to spend a cold night on the 
hillside for the sake of a Stomach-cim-Brain-cwm-Eye 
illusion Lord, ha’ mercy! What’s that?” 

There was a muffled report, a blinding smother of dust 
just in front of us, a crack, the noise of rent boughs, and about 
ten yards of the cliff-side — pines, undergrowth, and all — 
slid down into the road below, completely blocking it up. 
The uprooted trees swayed and tottered for a moment like 
drunken giants in the gloom, and then fell prone- among their 
fellows with a thunderous crash. Our two horses stood mo- 
tionless and sweating with fear. As soon as the rattle of 
falling earth and stone had subsided, my companion mut- 
tered: “Man, if we’d gone forward we should have been 
ten feet deep in our graves by now. There are more things 
in heaven and earth. . . . Come home, Pansay, and 

thank God. I want a peg badly.” 

We retraced our way over the Church Ridge, and I 
arrived at Doctor Heatherlegh’s house shortly after mid- 
night. 

His attempts towards my cure commenced almost im- 


90 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


mediately, and for a week I never left his sight. Many a 
time in the course of that week did I bless the good-fortune 
which had thrown me in contact with Simla’s best and kind- 
est doctor. Day by day my spirits grew lighter and more 
equable. Day by day, too, I became more and more in- 
clined to fall in with Heatherlegh’s “spectral illusion” theory, 
implicating eyes, brain, and stomach. I wrote to Kitty, 
telling her that a slight sprain caused by a fall from my horse 
kept me indoors for a few days; and that I should be re- 
covered before she had time to regret my absence. 

Heatherlegh’s treatment was simple to a degree. It con- 
sisted of liver pills, cold-water baths, and strong exercise, 
taken in the dusk or at early dawn — for, as he sagely ob- 
served: “A man with a sprained ankle doesn’t walk a dozen 
miles a day, and your young woman might be wondering if 
she saw you.” 

At the end of the week, after much examination of pupil 
and pulse, and strict injunctions as to diet and pedestrianism, 
Heatherlegh dismissed me as brusquely as he had taken 
charge of me. Here is his parting benediction: “Man, I 
certify to your mental cure, and that’s as much as to say I’ve 
cured most of your bodily ailments. Now, get your traps 
out of this as soon as you can; and be off to make love to Miss 
Kitty.” 

I was endeavoring to express my thanks for his kindness. 
He cut me short. 

“Don’t think I did this because I like you. I gather that 
you’ve behaved like a blackguard all through. But, all the 
same, you’re a phenomenon, and as queer a phenomenon as 
you are a blackguard. No!” — checking me a second time — 
“not a rupee, please. Go out and see if you can find the eye- 
brain-and-stomach business again. I’ll give you a lakh for 
each time you see it.” 

Half an hour later I was in the Mannerings’ drawing-room 
with Kitty — drunk with the intoxication of present happiness 
and the foreknowledge that I should never more be troubled 
with Its hideous presence. Strong in the sense of my new- 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW 91 

found security, I proposed a ride at once; and, by preference, 
a canter round Jakko. 

Never had I felt so well, so overladen with vitality and mere 
animal spirits, as I did on the afternoon of the 30th of April. 
Kitty was delighted at the change in my appearance, and 
complimented me on it in her delightfully frank and out- 
spoken manner. We left the Mannerings’ house together, 
laughing and talking, and cantered along the Chota Simla 
road as of old. 

I was in haste to reach the Sanjowlie Reservoir and there 
make my assurance doubly sure. The horses did their best, 
but seemed all too slow to my impatient mind. Kitty was 
astonished at my boisterousness. “Why, Jack!” she cried 
at last, “you are behaving like a child. What are you 
doing?” 

We were just below the Convent, and from sheer 
wantonness I was making my Waler plunge and curvet across 
the road as I tickled it with the loop of my riding-whip. 

“Doing?” I answered; “nothing, dear. That’s just it. 
If you’d been doing nothing for a week except lie up, you’d 
be as riotous as I. 

“Singing and murmuring in your feastful mirth. 

Joying to feel yourself alive; 

Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible Earth, 

Lord of the senses five.” 

My quotation was hardly out of my lips before we had 
rounded the corner above the Convent; and a few yards 
i further on could see across to Sanjowlie. In the center of 
the level road stood the black and white liveries, the yellow- 
paneled ’rickshaw, and Mrs. Keith-Wessington. I pulled 
up, looked, rubbed my eyes, and, I believe, must have said 
something. The next thing I knew was that I was lying 
face downward on the road, with Kitty kneeling above me 
in tears. 

“Has it gone, child!” I gasped. Kitty only wept more 
bitterly. 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“Has what gone, Jack dear? What does it all mean? There 
must be a mistake somewhere, Jack. A hideous mistake.” 
Her last words brought me to my feet — mad — raving for the 
time being. 

“Yes, there is a mistake somewhere,” I repeated, “a 
hideous mistake. Come and look at It.” 

I have an indistinct idea that I dragged Kitty by the wrist 
along the road up to where It stood, and implored her for 
pity’s sake to speak to It; to tell It that we were betrothed; 
that nether Death nor Hell could break the tie between us: 
and Kitty only knows how much more to the same effect. 
Now and again I appealed passionately to the Terror in the 
’rickshaw to bear witness to all I had said, and to release me 
from a torture that was killing me. As I talked I suppose I 
must have told Kitty of my old relations with Mrs. Wes- 
sington, for I saw her listen intently with white face and 
blazing eyes. 

“Thank you, Mr. Pansay,” she said, “that’s quite enough. 
Syce, ghora lao .” 

The syces, impassive as Orientals always are, had come up 
with the recaptured horses; and as Kitty sprang into her 
saddle I caught hold of her bridle, entreating her to hear me 
out and forgive. My answer was the cut of her riding-whip 
across my face from mouth to eye, and a word or two of 
farewell that even now I cannot write down. So I judged 
and judged rightly, that Kitty knew all; and 1 staggered 
back to the side of the ’rickshaw. My face was cut and 
bleeding, and the blow of the riding- whip had raised a livid 
blue wheal on it. I had no self-respect. Just then, Heather- 
legh, who must have been following Kitty and me at a dis- 
tance, cantered up. 

“Doctor,” I said, pointing to my face, “here’s Miss 

Mannering’s signature to my order of dismissal and I’ll 

thank you for that lakh as soon as convenient.” 

Heatherlegh’s face, even in my abject misery, moved me 
to laughter. 

“I’ll stake my professional reputation ” he began. 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW 


93 


“Don’t be a fool,” I whispered. “I’ve lost my life’s hap- 
piness and you’d better take me home.” 

As I spoke the ’rickshaw was gone. Then I lost all knowl- 
edge of what was passing. The crest of Jakko seemed to 
heave and roll like the crest of a cloud and fall in upon me. 

Seven days later (on the 7th of May, that is to say) I was 
aware that I was lying in Heatherlegh’s room as weak as a 
little child. Heatherlegh was watching me intently from be- 
hind the papers on his writing-table. His first words were 
not encouraging; but I was too far spent to be much moved 
by them. 

“Here’s Miss Kitty has sent back your letters. You cor- 
responded a good deal, you young people. Here’s a packet 
that looks like a ring, and a cheerful sort of a note from 
Mannering Papa, which I’ve taken the liberty of reading and 
burning. The old gentleman’s not pleased with you.” 

“And Kitty?” I asked dully. 

“Rather more drawn than her father from what she says. 
By the same token you must have been letting out any num- 
ber of queer reminiscences just before I met you. ’Says that 
a man who would have behaved to a woman as you did to 
Mrs. Wessington ought to kill himself out of sheer pity for 
his kind. She’s a hot-headed little virago, your mash. 
’Will have it too that you were suffering from D. T. when 
that row on the Jakko road turned up. ’Says she’ll die 
before she ever speaks to you again.” 

I groaned and turned over on the other side. 

“Now you’ve got your choice, my friend. This engage- 
ment has to be broken off; and the Mannerings don’t want 
to be too hard on you. Was it broken through D. T. or 
epileptic fits? Sorry I can’t offer you a better exchange un- 
less you’d prefer hereditary insanity. Say the word and I’ll 
tell ’em it’s fits. All Simla knows about that scene on the 
Ladies’ Mile. Come! I’ll give you five minutes to think 
over it.” 

During those five minutes I believe that I explored thor- 
oughly the lowest circles of the Inferno which it is permitted 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


man to tread on earth. And at the same time I myself was 
watching myself faltering through the dark labyrinths of 
doubt, misery, and utter despair. I wondered, as Heather- 
legh in his chair might have wondered, which dreadful alter- 
native I should adopt. Presently I heard myself answering 
in a voice that I hardly recognized — 

“They’re confoundedly particular about morality in these 
parts. Give ’em fits, Heatherlegh, and my love. Now let 
me sleep a bit longer.” 

Then my two selves joined, and it was only I (half-crazed, 
devil-driven I) that tossed in my bed tracing step by step the 
history of the past month. 

“ But I am in Simla,” I kept repeating to myself. “ I, J ack 
Pansay, am in Simla, and there are no ghosts here. It’s un- 
reasonable of that woman to pretend there are. Why 
couldn’t Agnes have left me alone? 1 never did her any 
harm. It might just as well have been me as Agnes. Only 
I’d never have come back on purpose to kill her . Why can’t 
I be left alone — left alone and happy? ” 

It was high noon when 1 first awoke : and the sun was low 
in the sky before I slepf — slept as the tortured criminal 
sleeps on his rack, too worn to feel further pain. 

Next day I could riot leave my bed. Heatherlegh told me 
in the morning that he had received an answer from Mr. 
Mannering, and that, thanks, to his (Heatherlegh’s) friendly 
offices, the story of my affliction had traveled through the 
length and breadth of Simla, where I was on all sides much 
pitied. 

“And that’s rather more than you deserve,” he concluded 
pleasantly, “though the Lord knows you’ve been going 
through a pretty severe mill: Never mind; we’ll cure you 
yet, you perverse phenomenon^’ 

I declined firmly to be cured. “You’ve been much too 
good to me already, okLman,” said I; “but I don’t think I 
need trouble you further.” 

In my heart I knew_ that nothing Heatherlegh could do 
would lighten the burden that had been laid upon me. 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW 


95 


With that knowledge came also a sense of hopeless, im- 
potent rebellion against the unreasonableness of it all. There 
were scores of men no better than I whose punishments had 
at least been reserved for another world; and I felt that it was 
bitterly, cruelly unfair that I alone should have been singled 
out for so hideous a fate. This mood would in time give 
place to another where it seemed that the ’rickshaw and I 
were the only realities in a world of shadows; that Kitty was 
a ghost; that Mannering, Heatherlegh, and all the other men 
and women I knew were all ghosts; and the great, gray hills 
themselves but vain shadows devised to torture me. From 
mood to mood I tossed backwards and forwards for seven 
weary days; my body growing daily stronger and stronger, 
until the bedroom looking-glass told me that I had returned 
to every-day life, and was as other men once more. Cur- 
iously enough my face showed no signs of the struggle I had 
gone through. It was pale indeed, but as expressionless and 
commonplace as ever. I had expected some permanent 
alteration — visible evidence of the disease that was eating 
me away. I found nothing. 

On the 15th of May I left Heatherlegh’s house at eleven 
o’clock in the morning; and the instinct of the bachelor drove 
me to the Club. There I found that every man knew my 
story as told by Heatherlegh, and was, in clumsy fashion, 
abnormally kind and attentive. Nevertheless I recognized 
that for the rest of my natural life I should be among but not 
of my fellows; and I envied very bitterly indeed the laughing 
coolies on the Mall below. I lunched at the Club, and at 
four o’clock wandered aimlessly down the Mall in the vague 
hope of meeting Kitty. Close to the Band-stand the black 
and white liveries joined me; and I heard Mrs. Wessington’s 
old appeal at my side. I had been expecting this ever since 
I came out; and was only surprised at her delay. The 
phantom ’rickshaw and I went side by side along the Chota 
Simla road in silence. Close to the bazar, Kitty and a man 
on horseback overtook and passed us. For any sign she 
gave I might have been a dog in the road. She did not even 


96 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


pay me the compliment of quickening her pace; though the 
rainy afternoon had served for an excuse. 

So Kitty and her companion, and I and my ghostly 
Light-o’-Love, crept round Jakko in couples. The road 
was streaming with water; the pines dripped like roof -pipes 
on the rocks below, and the air was full of fine, driving rain. 
Two or three times I found myself saying to myself almost 
aloud: “I’m Jack Pansay on leave at Simla — at Simla! 
Every-day, ordinary Simla. I mustn’t forget that — I 
mustn’t forget that.” Then I would try to recollect some 
of the gossip I had heard at the Club: the prices of So-and 
So’s horses — anything, in fact, that related to the work-a- 
day Anglo-Indian world I knew so well. I even repeated the 
multiplication-table rapidly to myself, to make quite sure 
that I was not taking leave of my senses. It gave me much 
comfort; and must have prevented my hearing Mrs. Wes- 
sington for a time. 

Once more I wearily climbed the Convent slope and 
entered the level road. Here Kitty and the man started 
off at a canter, and I was left alone with Mrs. Wessington. 
“Agnes,” said I, “will you put back your hood and tell me 
what it all means? The hood dropped noiselessly, and I 
was face to face with my dead and buried mistress. She 
was wearing the dress in which I had last seen her alive; 
carried the same tiny handkerchief in her right hand; and 
the same card-case in her left. (A woman eight months 
dead with a card-case!) I had to pin myself down to the 
multiplication-table, and to set both hands on the stone 
parapet of the road, to assure myself that that at least was 
real. 

“Agnes,” I repeated, “for pity’s sake tell me what it all 
means.” Mrs. Wessington leaned forward, with that odd, 
quick turn of the head I used to know so well, and spoke. 

If my story had not already so madly overleaped the 
bounds of all human belief I should apologize to you now. 
As I know that no one — no, not even Kitty, for whom it is 
written as some sort of justification of my conduct — will 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW 


97 


believe me, I will go on. Mrs. Wessington spoke and I 
walked with her from the Sanjowlie road to the turning 
below the Commander-in-Chief’s house as I might walk 
by the side of any living woman’s ’rickshaw, deep in con- 
versation. The second and most tormenting of my moods 
of sickness had suddenly laid hold upon me, and like the 
Prince in Tennyson’s poem, “I seemed to move amid a 
world of ghosts.” There had been a garden-party at the 
Commander-in-Chief’s, and we two joined the crowd of 
homeward-bound folk. As I saw them it seemed that they 
were the shadows — impalpable fantastic shadows — that 
divided for Mrs. Wessington’s ’rickshaw to pass through. 
What we said during the course of that weird interview I 
cannot — indeed, I dare not — tell. Heatherlegh’s comment 
would have been a short laugh and a remark that I had been 
“mashing a brain-eye-and-stomach chimera.” It was a 
ghastly and yet in some indefinable way a marvelously dear 
experience. Could it be possible, I wondered, that I was in 
this life to woo a second time the woman I had killed by my 
own neglect and cruelty? 

I met Kitty on the homeward road — a shadow among 
shadows. 

If I were to describe all the incidents of the next fortnight 
in their order, my story would never come to an end; and 
your patience would be exhausted. Morning after morning 
and evening after evening the ghostly ’rickshaw and I used 
to wander through Simla together. Wherever I went there 
the four black and white liveries followed me and bore me 
company to and from my hotel. At the Theater I found 
them amid the crowd of yelling jhampanies ; outside the 
Club veranda, after a long evening of whist; at the Birthday 
Ball, waiting patiently for my reappearance; and in broad 
daylight when I went calling. Save that it cast no shadow, 
the ’rickshaw was in every respect as real to look upon as 
one of wood and iron. More than once, indeed, I have had 
to check myself from warning some hard-riding friend against 
cantering over it. More than once I have walked down the 


98 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


Mall deep in conversation with Mrs. Wessington to the un- 
speakable amazement of the passers-by. 

Before I had been out and about a week I learned that 
the “fit” theory had been discarded in favor of insanity. 
However, I made no change in my mode of life. I called, 
rode, and dined out as freely as ever. I had a passion for 
the society of my kind which I had never felt before; I 
hungered to be among the realities of life; and at the same 
time I felt vaguely unhappy when I had been separated 
too long from my ghostly companion. It would be almost 
impossible to describe my varying moods from the 15th of 
May up to to-day. 

The presence of the ’rickshaw filled me by turns with 
horror, blind fear, a dim sort of pleasure, and utter de- 
spair. I dared not leave Simla; and I knew that my stay 
there was killing me. I knew, moreover, that it was my 
destiny to die slowly and a little every day. My only 
anxiety was to get the penance over as quietly as might be. 
Alternately I hungered for a sight of Kitty and watched 
her outrageous flirtations with my successor — to speak more 
accurately, my successors — with amused interest. She was 
as much out of my life as I was out of hers. By day I wan- 
dered with Mrs. Wessington almost content. By night I 
implored Heaven to let me return to the world as I used to 
know it. Above all these varying moods lay the sensation 
of dull, numbing wonder that the seen and Unseen should 
mingle so strangely on this earth to hound one poor soul to 
its grave. 

***** * * 

August 27. — Heatherlegh has been indefatigable in his 
attendance on me; and only yesterday told me that I ought 
to send in an application for sick leave. An application to 
escape the company of a phantom! A request that the 
Government would graciously permit me to get rid of five 
ghosts and an airy ’rickshaw by going to England ! Heather- 


THE PHANTOM ’RICKSHAW 


99 


legh’s proposition moved me to almost hysterical laughter. 
I told him that I should await the end quietly at Simla; and 
I am sure that the end is not far off. Believe me that I 
dread its advent more than any word can say; and I torture 
myself nightly with a thousand speculations as to the manner 
of my death. 

Shall I die in my bed decently and as an English gentle- 
man should die; or, in one last walk on the Mall, will my 
soul be wrenched from me to take its place for ever and 
ever by the side of that ghastly phantasm? Shall I return 
to my old lost allegiance in the next world, or shall I meet 
Agnes loathing her and bound to her side through all eternity? 
Shall we two hover over the scene of our lives till the end of 
Time? As the day of my death draws nearer, the intense 
horror that all living flesh feels toward escaped spirits from 
beyond the grave grows more and more powerful. It is an 
awful thing to go down quick among the dead with scarcely 
one-half of your life completed. It is a thousand times 
more awful to wait as I do in your midst, for I know not 
what unimaginable terror. Pity me, at least on the score 
of my “delusion,” for I know you will never believe what I 
have written here. Yet as surely as ever a man was done to 
death by the Powers of Darkness, I am that man. 

In justice, too, pity her. For as surely as ever woman 
was killed by man, I killed Mrs. Wessington. And the last 
portion of my punishment is even now upon me. 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE 


(1889) 

“An officer and a gentleman.” 

His full name was Percival William Williams, but he picked 
up the other name in a nursery-book, and that was the end 
of the christened titles. His mother’s ayah called him 
Willie-5a6a, but as he never paid the faintest attention to 
anything that the ayah said, her wisdom did not help matters. 

His father was the Colonel of the 195th, and as soon 
as Wee Willie Winkie was old enough to understand what 
Military Discipline meant, Colonel Williams put him under 
it. There was no other way of managing the child. When 
he was good for a week, he drew good-conduct pay; and when 
he was bad, he was deprived of his good-conduct stripe. 
Generally he was bad, for India offers many chances of going 
wrong to little six-year-olds. 

Children resent familiarity from strangers, and Wee 
Willie Winkie was a very particular child. Once he ac- 
cepted an acquaintance, he was graciously pleased to thaw. 
He accepted Brandis, a subaltern of the 195th, on sight. 
Brandis was having tea at the Colonel’s, and Wee Willie 
Winkie entered strong in the possession of a good-conduct 
badge won for not chasing the hens round the compound. 
He regarded Brandis with gravity for at least ten minutes, 
and then delivered himself of his opinion. 

“I like you,” said he slowly, getting off his chair and 
coming over to Brandis. “I like you. I shall call you 
Coppy, because of your hair. Do you mind being called 
Coppy? It is because of ve hair, you know.” 

100 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE 


101 


Here was one of the most embarrassing of Wee Willie 
Winkie’s peculiarities. He would look at a stranger for 
some time, and then, without warning or explanation, 
would give him a name. And the name stuck. No regi- 
mental penalties could break Wee Willie Winkie of this 
habit. He lost his good-conduct badge for christening the 
Commissioner’s wife “Pobs”; but nothing that the Colonel 
could do made the Station forego the nickname, and Mrs. 
Collen remained “Pobs” till the end of her stay. So Brandis 
was christened “Coppy,” and rose, therefore, in the estima- 
tion of the regiment. 

If Wee Willie Winkie took an interest in any one, the 
fortunate man was envied alike by the mess and the rank 
and file. And in their envy lay no suspicion of self-inter- 
est. “The Colonel’s son” was idolized on his own merits 
entirely. Yet Wee Willie Winkie was not lovely. His 
face was permanently freckled, as his legs were permanently 
scratched, and in spite of his mother’s almost tearful remon- 
strances he had insisted upon having his long yellow locks 
cut short in the military fashion. “I want my hair like 
Sergeant Tummil’s,” said Wee Willie Winkie, and, his father 
abetting, the sacrifice was accomplished. 

Three weeks after the bestowal of his youthful affec- 
tions on Lieutenant Brandis — henceforward to be called 
“Coppy” for the sake of brevity — Wee Willie Winkie was 
destined to behold strange things and far beyond his com- 
prehension. 

Coppy returned his liking with interest. Coppy had let 
him wear for five rapturous minutes his own big sword — 
just as tall as Wee Willie Winkie. Coppy had promised 
him a terrier puppy; and Coppy had permitted him to wit- 
ness the miraculous operation of shaving. Nay, more — 
Coppy had said that even he, Wee Willie Winkie, would 
rise in time to the ownership of a box of shiny knives, a 
silver soap-box and a silver-handled “sputter-brush,” as 
Wee Willie Winkie called it. Decidedly, there was no one 
except his father, who could give or take away good-con- 


102 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


duct badges at pleasure, half so wise, strong, and valiant 
as Coppy with the Afghan and Egyptian medals on his 
breast. Why, then, should Coppy be guilty of the un- 
manly weakness of kissing — vehemently kissing — a “big 
girl,” Miss Allardyce to wit? In the course of a morning 
ride, Wee Willie Winkie had seen Coppy so doing, and, 
like the gentleman he was, had promptly wheeled round and 
cantered back to his groom, lest the groom should also see. 

Under ordinary circumstances he would have spoken to 
his father, but he felt instinctively that this was a matter 
on which Coppy ought first to be consulted. 

“Coppy,” shouted Wee Willie Winkie, reining up out- 
side that subaltern’s bungalow early one morning — “I 
want to see you, Coppy!” 

“Come in, young ’un,” returned Coppy, who was at 
early breakfast in the midst of his dogs. “What mischief 
have you been getting into now?” 

Wee Willie Winkie had done nothing notoriously bad 
for three days, and so stood on a pinnacle of virtue. 

“I’ve been doing nothing bad,” said he, curling himself 
into a long chair with a studious affectation of the Colo- 
nel’s languor after a hot parade. He buried his freckled 
nose in a tea-cup and, with eyes staring roundly over the 
rim, asked : “ I say, Coppy, is it pwoper to kiss big girls? ” 

“By Jove! You’re beginning early. Who do you want 
to kiss?” 

“No one. My muvver’s always kissing me if I don’t 
stop her. If it isn’t pwoper, how was you kissing Major 
Allardyce’s big girl last morning, by ve canal?” 

Coppy’s brow wrinkled. He and Miss Allardyce had 
with great craft managed to keep their engagement secret 
for a fortnight. There were urgent and imperative reasons 
why Major Allardyce should not know how matters stood 
for at least another month, and this small marplot had dis- 
covered a great deal too much. 

“I saw you,” said Wee Willie Winkie calmly. “But ve 
sais didn’t see. I said, 6 Hut jao !’ 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE 


103 


“Oh, you had that much sense, you young Rip,” groaned 
poor Coppy, half amused and half angry. “And how 
many people may you have told about it?” 

“Only me myself. You didn’t tell when I twied to wide 
ve buffalo ven my pony was lame; and I fought you 
wouldn’t like.” 

“Winkie,” said Coppy enthusiastically, shaking the 
small hand, “you’re the best of good fellows. Look here, 
you can’t understand all these things. One of these days 
— hang it, how can I make you see it! — I’m going to marry 
Miss Allardyce, and then she’ll be Mrs. Coppy, as you say. 
If your young mind is so scandalized at the idea of kissing 
big girls, go and tell your father.” 

“What will happen?” said Wee Willie Winkie, who 
firmly believed that his father was omnipotent. 

“I shall get into trouble,” said Coppy, playing his trump 
card with an appealing look at the holder of the ace. 

“Ven I won’t,” said Wee Willie Winkie briefly. “But my 
faver says it’s un-man-ly to be always kissing, and I didn’t 
fink you'd do vat, Coppy.” 

“I’m not always kissing, old chap. It’s only now and 
then, and when you’re bigger you’ll do it too. Your father 
meant it’s not good for little boys.” 

“Ah!” said Wee Willie Winkie, now fully enlightened. 
“It’s like ve sputter-brush?” 

“Exactly,” said Coppy gravely. 

“But I don’t fink I’ll ever want to kiss big girls, nor no 
one, ’cept my muvver. And I must vat, you know.” 

There was a long pause, broken by Wee Willie Winkie. 

“Are you fond of vis big girl, Coppy?” 

“Awfully!” said Coppy. 

“Fonder van you are of Bell or ve Butcha — or me?” 

“It’s in a different way,” said Coppy. “You see, one of 
these days Miss Allardyce will belong to me, but you’ll 
grow up and command the Regiment and — all sorts of 
things. It’s quite different, you see.” 

“Very well,” said Wee Willie Winkie, rising. “If you’re 


104 STORIES FROM KIPLING 

fond of ve big girl, I won’t tell any one. I must go 
now.” 

Coppy rose and escorted his small guest to the door, 
adding — “You’re the best of little fellows, Winkie. I tell 
you what. In thirty days from now you can tell if you 
like — tell any one you like.” 

Thus the secret of the Brandis-Allardyce engagement 
was dependent on a little child’s word. Coppy, who knew 
Wee Willie Winkie’s idea of truth, was at ease, for he 
felt that he would not break promises. Wee Willie Winkie 
betrayed a special and unusual interest in Miss Allardyce, 
and, slowly revolving round that embarrassed young 
lady, was used to regard her gravely with unwinking eye. 
He was trying to discover why Coppy should have kissed 
her. She was not half so nice as his own mother. On the 
other hand, she was Coppy ’s property, and would in time 
belong to him. Therefore it behooved him to treat her 
with as much respect as Coppy ’s big sword or shiny pistol. 

The idea that he shared a great secret in common with 
Coppy kept Wee Willie Winkie unusually virtuous for 
three weeks. Then the Old Adam broke out, and he made 
what he called a “camp-fire” at the bottom of the garden. 
How could he have foreseen that the flying sparks would 
have lighted the Colonel’s little hay-rick and consumed a 
week’s store for the horses? Sudden and swift was the 
punishment — deprivation of the good-conduct badge and, 
most sorrowful of all, two days’ confinement to barracks — 
the house and veranda — coupled with the withdrawal of the 
light of his father’s countenance. 

He took the sentence like the man he strove to be, drew 
himself up with a quivering under-lip, saluted, and, once 
clear of the room, ran to weep bitterly in his nursery — called 
by him “my quarters.” Coppy came in the afternoon and 
attempted to console the culprit. 

“I’m under awwest,” said Wee Willie Winkie mournfully, 
“and I didn’t ought to speak to you.” 

Very early the next morning he climbed on to the roof of 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE 105 

the house — that was not forbidden — and beheld Miss Allar- 
dyce going for a ride. 

“Where are you going?’’ cried Wee Willie Winkie. 

“Across the river,” she answered, and trotted forward. 

Now the cantonment in which the 195th lay was bounded 
on the north by a river — dry in the winter. From his ear- 
liest years. Wee Willie Winkie had been forbidden to go across 
the river, and had noted that even Coppy — the almost 
almighty Coppy — had never set foot beyond it. Wee Willie 
Winkie had once been read to, out of a big blue book, the 
history of the Princess and the Goblins — a most wonderful 
tale of a land where the Goblins were always warring with the 
children of men until they were defeated by one Curdie. 
Ever since that date it seemed to him that the bare black 
and purple hills across the river were inhabited by Goblins, 
and, in truth, everyone had said that there lived the Bad 
Men. Even in his own house the lower halves of the win- 
dows were covered with green paper on account of the Bad 
Men who might, if allowed clear view, fire into peaceful 
drawing-rooms and comfortable bedrooms. Certainly, be- 
yond the river, which was the end of all the Earth, lived the 
Bad Men. And here was Major Allardyce’s big girl, Coppy’s 
property, preparing to venture into their borders! What 
would Coppy say if anything happened to her? If the 
Goblins ran off with her as they did with Curdie’s Princess? 
She must at all hazards be turned back. 

The house was still. Wee Willie Winkie reflected for a 
moment on the very terrible wrath of his father; and then 
— broke his arrest! It was a crime unspeakable. The 
low sun threw his shadow, very large and very black, on 
the trim garden-paths, as he went down to the stables and 
ordered his pony. It seemed to him in the hush of the 
dawn that all the big world had been bidden to stand still 
and look at Wee Willie Winkie guilty of mutiny. The 
drowsy sais gave him his mount, and, since the one great 
sin made all others insignificant. Wee Willie Winkie said 
that he was going to ride over to Coppy Sahib, and went 


106 STORIES FROM KIPLING 

out at a foot-pace, stepping on the soft mould of the flower- 
borders. 

The devastating track of the pony’s feet was the last mis- 
deed that cut him off from all sympathy of Humanity. He 
turned into the road, leaned forward, and rode as fast as 
the pony could put foot to the ground in the direction of 
the river. 

But the liveliest of twelve-two ponies can do little against 
the long canter of a Waler. Miss Allardyce was far ahead, 
had passed through the crops, beyond the Police-posts, when 
all the guards were asleep, and her mount was scattering the 
pebbles of the river-bed as Wee Willie Winkie left the can- 
tonment and British India behind him. Bowed forward and 
still flogging, Wee Willie Winkie shot into Afghan territory, 
and could just see Miss Allardyce a black speck, flickering 
across the stony plain. The reason of her wandering was 
simple enough. Coppy, in a tone of too-hastily-assumed 
authority, had told her over night that she must not ride 
out by the river. And she had gone to prove her own spirit 
and teach Coppy a lesson. 

Almost at the foot of the inhospitable hills, Wee Willie 
Winkie saw the Waler blunder and come down heavily. 
Miss Allardyce struggled clear, but her ankle had been 
severely twisted, and she could not stand. Having fully 
shown her spirit, she wept, and was surprised by the ap- 
parition of a white, wide-eyed child in khaki, on a nearly 
spent pony. 

“Are you badly, badly hurted?” shouted Wee Willie 
Winkie, as soon as he was within range. “You didn’t ought 
to be here.” 

“I don’t know,” said Miss Allardyce ruefully, ignoring 
the reproof. “Good gracious, child, what are you doing 
here?” 

“You said you was going acwoss ve wiver,” panted Wee 
Willie Winkie, throwing himself off his pony. “And no- 
body — not even Coppy — must go acwoss ve wiver, and I 
game after you ever so hard, but you wouldn’t stop, and 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE 


107 


now you’ve hurted yourself, and Coppy will be angwy wiv 
me, and — I’ve bwoken my awwest! I’ve bwoken my aw- 
west ! ” 

The future Colonel of the 195th sat down and sobbed. In 
spite of the pain in her ankle the girl was moved. 

“Have you ridden all the way from cantonments, little 
man? What for?” 

“You belonged to Coppy. Coppy told me so!” wailed 
Wee Willie Winkie disconsolately. “I saw him kissing you, 
and he said he was fonder of you van Belle or ve Butcha 
or me. And so I came. You must get up and come back. 
You didn’t ought to be here. Vis is a bad place, and I’ve 
bwoken my awwest.” 

“I can’t move, Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, with a groan. 
“I’ve hurt my foot. What shall I do? ” 

She showed a readiness to weep anew, which steadied 
Wee Willie Winkie, who had been brought up to believe that 
tears were the depth of unmanliness. Still, when one is as 
great a sinner as Wee Willie Winkie, even a man may be 
permitted to break down. 

“Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, “when you’ve rested a 
little, ride back and tell them to send out something to carry 
me back in. It hurts fearfully.” 

The child sat still for a little time and Miss Allardyce 
closed her eyes; the pain was nearly making her faint. 
She was roused by Wee Willie Winkie tying up the reins 
on his pony’s neck and setting it free with a vicious cut of 
his whip that made it whicker. The little animal headed 
towards the cantonments. 

“Oh, Winkie! What are you doing?” 

“Hush!” said Wee Willie Winkie. “Vere’s a man 
coming — one of ve Bad Men. I must stay wiv you. 
My faver says a man must always look after a girl. Jack 
will go home, and ven vey’ll come and look for us. Vat’s 
why I let him go.” 

Not one man but two or three had appeared from behind 


108 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


the rocks of the hills, and the heart of Wee Willie Winkie 
sank within him, for just in this manner were the Goblins 
wont to steal out and vex Curdie’s soul. Thus had they 
played in Curdie’s garden, he had seen the picture, and thus 
had they frightened the Princess’s nurse. He heard them 
talking to each other, and recognized with joy the bastard 
Pushto that he had picked up from one of his father’s grooms, 
lately dismissed. People who spoke that tongue could not 
be the Bad Men. They were only natives after all. 

They came up to the bowlders on which Miss Allar- 
dyce’s horse had blundered. 

Then rose from the rock Wee Willie Winkie, child of the 
Dominant Race, aged six and three-quarters, and said briefly 
and emphatically “Jao /” The pony had crossed the river- 
bed. 

The men laughed, and laughter from natives was the one 
thing Wee Willie Winkie could not tolerate. He asked 
them what they wanted and why they did not depart. Other 
men with most evil faces and crooked-stocked guns crept 
out of the shadows of the hills, till, soon, Wee Willie Winkie 
was face to face with an audience some twenty strong. 
Miss Allardyce screamed. 

“Who are you?” said one of the men. 

“I am the Colonel Sahib’s son, and my order is that you 
go at once. You black men are frightening the Miss Sahib. 
One of you must run into cantonments and take the news 
that the Miss Sahib has hurt herself, and that the Colonel’s 
son is here with her.” 

“Put our feet into the trap?” was the laughing reply. 
“Hear this boy’s speech!” 

“Say that I sent you — I, the Colonel’s son. They will 
give you money.” 

“What is the use of this talk? Take up the child and 
the girl, and we can at least ask for the ransom. Ours 
are the villages on the heights,” said a voice in the back- 
ground. 

These were the Bad Men — worse than Goblins — and it 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE 


109 


needed all Wee Willie Winkie’s training to prevent him from 
bursting into tears. But he felt that to cry before a native, 
excepting only his mother’s ayah , would be an infamy greater 
than any mutiny. Moreover, he, as future Colonel of the 
195th, had that grim regiment at his back. 

“Are you going to carry us away?” said Wee Willie Win- 
kie, very blanched and uncomfortable. 

“Yes, my little Sahib Bahadur ,” said the tallest of the 
men, “and eat you afterwards.” 

“That is child’s talk,” said Wee Willie Winkie. “Men 
do not eat men.” 

A yell of laughter interrupted him, but he went on firmly 
— “And if you do carry us away, I tell you that all my regi- 
ment will come up in a day and kill you all without leaving 
one. Who will take my message to the Colonel Sahib?” 

Speech in any vernacular — and Wee Willie Winkie had a 
colloquial acquaintance with three — was easy to the boy 
who could not yet manage his “r’s” and “th’s” aright. 

Another man joined the conference, crying: “O fool- 
ish men! What this babe says is true. He is the heart’s 
heart of those white troops. For the sake of peace let them 
go both, for if he be taken, the regiment will break loose 
and gut the valley. Our villages are in the valley, and we 
shall not escape. That regiment are devils. They broke 
Khoda Yar’s breastbone with kicks when he tried to take 
the rifles; and if we touch this child they will fire and rape 
and plunder for a month, till nothing remains. Better to 
send a man back to take the message and get a reward. I 
say that this child is their God, and that they will spare none 
of us, nor our women, if we harm him.” 

It was Din Mahommed, the dismissed groom of the 
Colonel, who made the diversion, and an angry and heated 
discussion followed. Wee Willie Winkie, standing over 
Miss Allardyce, waited the upshot. Surely his “wegi- 
ment,” his own “wegiment,” would not desert him if they 
knew of his extremity. 


110 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


The riderless pony brought the news to the 195th, though 
there had been consternation in the Colonel’s household 
for an hour before. The little beast came in through the 
parade-ground in front of the main barracks, where the 
men were settling down to play Spoil-five till the afternoon. 
Devlin, the Color-Sergeant of E Company, glanced at the 
empty saddle and tumbled through the barrack-rooms, 
kicking up each Room Corporal as he passed. “Up, ye 
beggars! There’s something happened to the Colonel’s 
son,” he shouted. 

“He couldn’t fall off! S’elp me, ’e couldn't fall off,” 
blubbered a drummer-boy. “Go an’ hunt acrost the river. 
He’s over there if he’s anywhere, an’ maybe those Pathans 
have got ’im. For the love o’ Gawd don’t look for ’im in 
the nullahs! Let’s go over the river.” 

“There’s sense in Mott yet,” said Devlin. “E Company, 
double out to the river — sharp!” 

So E Company, in its shirt-sleeves mainly, doubled for 
the dear life, and in the rear toiled the perspiring Sergeant, 
adjuring it to double yet faster. The cantonment was alive 
with the men of the 195th hunting for Wee Willie Winkie, 
and the Colonel finally overtook E Company, far too ex- 
hausted to swear, struggling in the pebbles of the river-bed. 

Up the hill under which Wee Willie Winkie’s Bad Men 
were discussing the wisdom of carrying off the child and the 
girl, a look-out fired two shots. 

“What have I said?” shouted Din Mahommed. “There 
is the warning! The pulton are out already and are coming 
across the plain! Get away! Let us not be seen with the 
boy!” 

The men waited for an instant, and then, as another shot 
was fired, withdrew into the hills, silently as they had ap- 
peared. 

“The wegiment is coming,” said Wee Willie Winkie con- 
fidently to Miss Allardyce, “and it’s all wight. Don’t 
cwy!” 

He needed the advice himself, for ten minutes later, when 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE 111 

his father came up, he was weeping bitterly with his head 
in Miss Allardyce’s lap. 

And the men of the 195th carried him home with shouts 
and rejoicings; and Coppy, who had ridden a horse into 
lather, met him, and, to his intense disgust, kissed him openly 
in the presence of the men. 

But there was balm for his dignity. His father assured 
him that not only would the breaking of arrest be condoned 
but that the good-conduct badge would be restored as soon 
as his mother could sew it on his blouse-sleeve. Miss Allar- 
dyce had told the Colonel a story that made him proud of his 
son. 

“She belonged to you, Coppy,” said Wee Willie Winkie, 
indicating Miss Allardyce with a grimy forefinger. “I 
knew she didn’t ought to go acwoss ve wiver, and I knew ve 
wegiment would come to me if I sent Jack home.” 

“You’re a hero, Winkie,” said Coppy — “a pukka hero!” 

“I don’t know what vat means,” said Wee Willie Winkie, 
“but you mustn’t call me Winkie any no more. I’m Per- 
cival Will’am Will’ams.” 

And in this manner did Wee Willie Winkie enter into his 
manhood. 


THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD 


( 1890 ) 

What did the colonel’s lady think? 

Nobody never knew. 

Somebody asked the sergeant’s wife 
An’ she told ’em true. 

When you git to a man in the case 
They’re like a row o’ pins. 

For the colonel’s lady an’ Judy O’Grady 
Are sisters under their skins. 

Barrack-Room Ballad. 

All day I had followed at the heels of a pursuing army en- 
gaged on one of the finest battles that ever camp of exercise be- 
held. Thirty thousand troops had by the wisdom of the Gov- 
ernment of India been turned loose over a few thousand square 
miles of country to practise in peace what they would never 
attempt in war. Consequently cavalry charged unshaken 
infantry at the trot. Infantry captured artillery by frontal 
attacks delivered in line of quarter columns, and mounted 
infantry skirmished up to the wheels of an armored train 
which carried nothing more deadly than a twenty-five 
pounder Armstrong, two Nordenfeldts, and a few score vol- 
unteers all cased in three-eighths-inch boiler-plate. Yet it 
was a very lifelike camp. Operations did not cease at sun- 
down; nobody knew the country and nobody spared man or 
horse. There was unending cavalry scouting and almost 
unending forced work over broken ground. The Army of 
the South had finally pierced the centre of the Army of the 
North, and was pouring through the gap hot-foot to capture 
a city of strategic importance. Its front extended fanwise, 
the sticks being represented by regiments strung out along 
the line of route backwards to the divisional transport col- 

112 


THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD 113 

umns and all the lumber that trails behind an army on the 
move. On its right the broken left of the Army of the 
North was flying in mass, chased by the Southern horse and 
hammered by the Southern guns till these had been pushed 
far beyond the limits of their last support. Then the flying 
sat down to rest, while the elated commandant of the pur- 
suing force telegraphed that he held all in check and ob- 
servation. 

Unluckily he did not observe that three miles to his right 
flank a flying column of Northern horse with a detachment 
of Ghoorkhas and British troops had been pushed round, as 
fast as the failing light allowed, to cut across the entire rear 
of the Southern Army, to break, as it were, all the ribs of the 
fan where they converged by striking at the transport, re- 
serve ammunition, and artillery supplies. Their instructions 
were to go in, avoiding the few scouts who might not have 
been drawn off by the pursuit, and creat sufficient excite- 
ment to impress the Southern Army with the wisdom of 
guarding their own flank and rear before they captured cities. 
It was a pretty manoeuvre, neatly carried out. 

Speaking for the second division of the Southern Army, 
our first intimation of the attack was at twilight, when the 
artillery were laboring in deep sand, most of the escort were 
trying to help them out, and the main body of the infantry 
had gone on. A Noah’s Ark of elephants, camels, and the 
mixed menagerie of an Indian transport-train bubbled and 
squealed behind the guns when there appeared from no- 
where in particular British infantry to the extent of three 
companies, who sprang to the heads of the gun-horses and 
brought all to a standstill amid oaths and cheers. 

“How’s that, umpire?” said the major commanding the 
attack, and with one voice the drivers and limber gunners 
answered “Hout!” while the colonel of artillery sputtered. 

“All your scouts are charging our main body,” said the 
major. “Your flanks are unprotected for two miles. I 
think we’ve broken the back of this division. And listen, — 
there go the Ghoorkhas!” 


114 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


A weak fire broke from the rear-guard more than a mile 
away, and was answered by cheerful howlings. The Ghoor- 
khas, who should have swung clear of the second division, had 
stepped on its tail in the dark, but drawing off hastened to 
reach the next line of attack, which lay almost parallel to 
us five or six miles away. 

Our column swayed and surged irresolutely, — three bat- 
teries, the divisional ammunition reserve, the baggage, and 
a section of the hospital and bearer corps. The commandant 
ruefully promised to report himself “cut up” to the nearest 
umpire, and commending his cavalry and all other cavalry 
to the special care of Eblis, toiled on to resume touch with 
the rest of the division. 

“We’ll bivouac here to-night,” said the major, “I have a 
notion that the Ghoorkhas will get caught. They may want 
us to re-form on. Stand easy till the transport gets away.” 

A hand caught my beast’s bridle and led him out of 
the choking dust; a larger hand deftly canted me out of the 
saddle; and two of the hugest hands in the world received me 
sliding. Pleasant is the lot of the special correspondent 
who falls into such hands as those of Privates Mulvaney, 
Ortheris, and Learoyd. 

“An’ that’s all right,” said the Irishman calmly. “We 
thought we’d find you somewhere here by. Is there any- 
thing av yours in the transport? Orth’ris ’ll fetch ut out.” 

Ortheris did “fetch ut out,” from under the trunk of an 
elephant, in the shape of a servant and an animal both laden 
with medical comforts. The little man’s eyes sparkled. 

“If the brutil an’ licentious soldiery av these parts gets 
sight av the thruck,” said Mulvaney, making practised in- 
vestigations, “they’ll loot ev’rything. They’re bein’ fed 
on iron-filin’s an’ dog-biscuit these days, but glory’s no com- 
pensation for a belly-ache. Praise be, we’re here to protect 
you, sorr. Beer, sausage, bread (soft an’ that’s a cur’- 
osity), soup in a tin, whisky by the smell av ut, an’ fowls! 
Mother av Moses, but ye take the field like a confectioner! 
’Tis scand’lus.” 


THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD 115 

“’Ere’s a orficer,” said Ortheris significantly. “When 
the sergent’s done lushin’ the privit may clean the pot.” 

I bundled several things into Mulvaney’s haversack be- 
fore the major’s hand fell on my shoulder and he said ten- 
derly, “Requisitioned for the Queen’s service. Wolseley 
was quite wrong about special correspondents: they are the 
soldier’s best friends. Come and take pot-luck with us to- 
night.” 

And so it happened amid laughter and shoutings that my 
well-considered commissariat melted away to reappear later 
at the mess-table, which was a waterproof sheet spread on 
the ground. The flying column had taken three days’ 
rations with it, and there be few things nastier than govern- 
ment rations — especially when government is experimenting 
with German toys. Erbsenwurst, tinned beef of surpassing 
tinniness, compressed vegetables, and meat-biscuits may be 
nourishing, but what Thomas Atkins needs is bulk in his 
inside. The major, assisted by his brother officers, pur- 
chased goats for the camp and so made the experiment of no 
effect. Long before the fatigue-party sent to collect brush- 
wood had returned, the men were settled down by their 
valises, kettles and pots had appeared from the surrounding 
country and were dangling over fires as the kid and the com- 
pressed vegetable bubbled together; there rose a cheerful 
clinking of mess-tins; outrageous demands for “a little more 
stuffin’ with that there liver-wing”; and gust on gust of 
chaff as pointed as a bayonet and as delicate as a gun- 
butt. 

“The boys are in a good temper,” said the major. “They- 
’ll be singing presently. Well, a night like this is enough to 
keep them happy.” 

Over our heads burned the wonderful Indian stars, which 
are not all pricked in on one plane, but, preserving an orderly 
perspective, draw the eye through the velvet darkness of the 
void up to the barred doors of heaven itself. The earth was 
a gray shadow more unreal than the sky. We could hear 
her breathing lightly in the pauses between the howling of 


116 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


the jackals, the movement of the wind in the tamarisks, and 
the fitful mutter of musketry-fire leagues away to the left. 
A native woman from some unseen hut began to sing, the 
mail-train thundered past on its way to Delhi, and a roosting 
crow cawed drowsily. Then there was a belt-loosening 
silence about the fires, and the even breathing of the crowded 
earth took up the story. 

The men, full fed, turned to tobacco and song, — their 
officers with them. The subaltern is happy who can win the 
approval of the musical critics in his regiment, and is hon- 
ored among the more intricate step-dancers. By him, as 
by him who plays cricket cleverly, Thomas Atkins will stand 
in time of need, when he will let a better officer go on alone. 
The ruined tombs of forgotten Mussulman saints heard the 
ballad of Agra Town , The Buffalo Battery , Marching to Kabul , 
The long , long Indian Day , The Place where the Punkah-coolie 
died , and that crashing chorus which announces, 

Youth’s daring spirit, manhood’s fire. 

Firm hand and eagle eye. 

Must he acquire who would aspire 
To see the gray boar die. 

To-day, of all those jovial thieves who appropriated my 
commissariat and lay and laughed round that waterproof 
sheet, not one remains. They went to camps that were not 
of exercise and battles without umpires. Burmah, the Sou- 
dan, and the frontier, — fever and fight, — took them in their 
time. 

I drifted across to the men’s fires in search of Mulvaney, 
whom I found strategically greasing his feet by the blaze. 
There is nothing particularly lovely in the sight of a private 
thus engaged after a long day’s march, but when you reflect 
on the exact proportion of the “might, majesty, dominion, 
and power” of the British Empire which stands on those feet 
you take an interest in the proceedings. 

“There’s a blister, bad luck to ut, on the heel,” said 
Mulvaney. “I can’t touch ut. Prick ut out, little man.” 


THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD 117 

Ortheris took out his house-wife, eased the trouble with a 
needle, stabbed Mulvaney in the calf with the same weapon, 
and was swiftly kicked into the fire. 

“I’ve bruk the best av my toes over you, ye grinnin’ 
child av disruption,” said Mulvaney, sitting cross-legged 
and nursing his feet; then seeing me, “Oh, ut’s you, sorr! 
Be welkim, an’ take that maraudin’ scutt’s place. Jock, 
hold him down on the cindhers for a bit.” 

But Ortheris escaped and went elsewhere, as I took pos- 
session of the hollow he had scraped for himself and lined with 
his greatcoat. Learoyd on the other side of the fire grinned 
affably and in a minute fell fast asleep. 

“There’s the height av politeness for you,” said Mul- 
vaney, lighting his pipe with a flaming branch. “But 
Jock’s eaten half a box av your sardines at wan gulp, an’ I 
think the tin too. What’s the best wid you, sorr, an’ how 
did you happen to be on the losin’ side this day whin we 
captured you?” 

“The Army of the South is winning all along the line,” 
I said. 

“Then that line’s the hangman’s rope, savin’ your pres- 
ence. You’ll learn to-morrow how we rethreated to dhraw 
thim on before we made thim trouble, an’ that’s what a 
woman does. By the same tokin, we’ll be attacked before 
the dawnin’ an’ ut would be betther not to slip your boots. 
How do I know that? By the light av pure reason. Here 
are three companies av us ever so far inside av the enemy’s 
flank an’ a crowd av roarin’, tarin’, squealin’ cavalry gone on 
just to turn out the whole hornet’s nest av them. Av course 
the enemy will pursue, by brigades like as not, an’ thin we’ll 
have to run for ut. Mark my words. I am a v the opinion 
av Polonius whin he said, ‘Don’t fight wid ivry scutt for the 
pure joy av fightin’, but if you do, knock the nose av him 
first an’ f requint.’ We ought to ha’ gone on an’ helped the 
Ghoorkhas.” 

“But what do you know about Polonius?” I demanded. 
This was a new side of Mulvaney’s character. 


118 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“All that Shakespeare iver wrote an’ a dale more that 
the gallery shouted,” said the man of war, carefully lacing 
his boots. “Did I not tell you av Silver’s theater in Dublin, 
whin I was younger than I am now an’ a patron av the 
drama? Ould Silver wud never pay actor-man or woman 
their just dues, an’ by consequince his comp’nies was collap- 
sible at the last minute. Thin the bhoys wud clamor to 
take a part, an’ oft as not ould Silver made them pay for the 
fun. Faith, I’ve seen Hamlut played wid a new black eye 
an’ the queen as full as a cornucopia. I remimber wanst 
Hogin that ’listed in the Black Tyrone an’ was shot in South 
Africa, he sejuced ould Silver into givin’ him Hamlut’s part 
instid av me that had a fine fancy for rhetoric in those days. 
Av course I wint into the gallery an’ began to fill the pit wid 
other people’s hats, an’ I passed the time av day to Hogin 
walkin’ through Denmark like a hamstrung mule wid a 
pall on his back. ‘Hamlut,’ sez I, ‘there’s a hole in your 
heel. Pull up your shtockin’s, Hamlut,’ sez I. ‘Hamlut, 
Hamlut, for the love av decincy dhrop that skull an’ pull 
up your shtockin’s.’ The whole house begun to tell him 
that. He stopped his soliloquishms mid-between. ‘My 
shtockin’s may be cornin’ down or they may not,’ sez he, 
screwin’ his eye into the gallery, for well he knew who I was. 
‘But afther this performince is over me an’ the Ghost ’ll 
trample the tripes out av you, Terence, wid your ass’s bray ! ’ 
An’ that’s how I come to know about Hamlut. Eyah! 
Those days, those days ! Did you iver have onendin’ devil- 
mint an’ nothin’ to pay for it in your life, sorr?” 

“Never, without having to pay,” I said. 

“That’s thrue! ’Tis mane whin you considher on ut; 
but ut’s the same wid horse or fut. A headache if you 
dhrink, an’ a belly-ache if you eat too much, an’ a heart- 
ache to kape all down. Faith, the beast only gets the colic, 
an’ he’s the lucky man.” 

He dropped his head and stared into the fire, fingering 
his moustache the while. From the far side of the bivouac 
the voice of Corbet-Nolan, senior subaltern of B company, 


THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD 


119 


uplifted itself in an ancient and much appreciated song of 
sentiment, the men moaning melodiously behind him. 

The north wind blew coldly, she drooped from that hour, 

My own little Kathleen, my sweet little Kathleen, 

Kathleen, my Kathleen, Kathleen O’ Moore! 

With forty-five O’s in the last word : even at that distance 
you might have cut the soft South Irish accent with a shovel. 

“For all we take we must pay, but the price is cruel high,” 
murmured Mulvaney when the chorus had ceased. 

“What’s the trouble?” I said gently, for I knew that he 
was a man of an inextinguishable sorrow. 

“Hear now,” said’ he. “Ye know what I am now. 1 
know what I mint to be at the beginnin’ av my service. 
I’ve tould you time an’ again, an’ what I have not Dinah 
Shadd has. An’ what am I ? Oh, Mary, Mother av Hiven, 
an ould dhrunken, untrustable baste av a privit that has 
seen the reg’ment change out from colonel to drummer-boy, 
not wanst or twice, but scores av times! Ay, scores! An’ 
me not so near gettin’ promotion as in the first! An’ me 
livin’ on an’ kapin’ clear av clink, not by my own good con- 
duck, but the kindness av some orf’cer-bhoy young enough 
to be son to me! Do I not know ut? Can I not tell whin 
I’m passed over at p’rade, tho’ I’m rockin full av liquor an’ 
ready to fall all in wan piece, such as even a suckin’ child 
might see, bekaze, ‘Oh, ’tis only ould Mulvaney ! ’ An’ 
whin I’m let off in ord’ly-room through some thrick of the 
tongue an’ a ready answer an’ the ould man’s mercy, is ut 
smilin’ I feel whin I fall away an’ go back to Dinah Shadd, 
thryin’ to carry ut all off as a joke? Not I ! ’Tis hell to me, 
dumb hell through ut all ; an’ next time whin the fit comes 
I will be as bad again. Good cause the reg’ment has to know 
me for the best soldier in ut. Better cause have I to know 
mesilf for the worst man. I’m only fit to tache the new drafts 
what I’ll niver learn mesilf; an’ I am sure, as tho’ I heard ut, 
that the minut wan av these pink-eyed recruities gets away 
from my ‘Mind ye now,’ an’ ‘Listen to this, Jim, bhoy,’— 


120 


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sure I am that the sergint houlds me up to him for a warnin’. 
So I tache, as they say at musketry-instruction, by direct 
and ricochet fire. Lord be good to me, for I have stud 
some throuble ! ” 

“Lie down and go to sleep,” said I, not being able to com- 
fort or advise. “You’re the best man in the regiment, and, 
next to Ortheris, the biggest fool. Lie down and wait till 
we’re attacked. What force will they turn out? Guns, 
think you?” 

“Try that wid your lorrds an’ ladies, twistin’ an’ turnin’ 
the talk, tho’ you mint ut well. Ye cud say nothin’ to help 
me, an’ yet ye niver knew what cause I had to be what I 
am.” 

“Begin at the beginning and go on to the end,” I said 
royally. “But rake up the fire a bit first.” 

I passed Ortheris’s bayonet for a poker. 

“That shows how little we know what we do,” said Mul- 
vaney, putting it aside. “Fire takes all the heart out av 
the steel, an’ the next time, may be, that our little man is 
fighting for his life his bradawl ’ll break, an’ so you’ll ha’ 
killed him, manin’ no more than to kape yourself warm. 
’Tis a recruity’s thrick that. Pass the clanin’-rod, sorr.” 

I snuggled down abased; and after an interval the voice 
of Mulvaney began. 

“ Did I iver tell you how Dinah Shadd came to be wife av 
mine?” 

I dissembled a burning anxiety that I had felt for some 
months — ever since Dinah Shadd, the strong, the patient, 
and the infinitely tender, had of her own good love and free 
will washed a shirt for me, moving in a barren land where 
washing was not. 

“I can’t remember,” I said casually. “Was it before 
or after you made love to Annie Bragin, and got no satis- 
faction?” 

The story of Annie Bragin is written in another place. 
It is one of the many less respectable episodes in Mulvaney ’s 
checkered career, 


THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD 121 


“Before — before — long before, was that business av Annie 
Bragin an’ the corp’ril’s ghost. Niver woman was the 
worse for me whin I had married Dinah. There’s a time for 
all things, an’ I know how to kape all things in place — barrin’ 
the dhrink, that kapes me in my place wid no hope av cornin’ 
to be aught else.” 

“Begin at the beginning,” I insisted. “Mrs. Mulvaney 
told me that you married her when you were quartered in 
Krab Bokhar barracks.” 

“An’ the same is a cess-pit,” said Mulvaney piously. 
“She spoke thrue, did Dinah. ’Twas this way. Talkin’ 
av that, have ye iver fallen in love, sorr?” 

I preserved the silence of the damned. Mulvaney con- 
tinued — 

“Thin I will assume that ye have not. I did. In the 
days av my youth, as I have more than wanst tould you, 
I was a man that filled the eye an’ delighted the sowl av 
women. Niver man was hated as I have bin. Niver man 
was loved as I — no, not within half a day’s march av ut! 
For the first five years av my service, whin I was what I 
wud give my sowl to be now, I tuk whatever was within my 
reach an’ digested ut — an that’s more than most men can 
say. Dhrink I tuk, an’ ut did me no harm. By the Hollow 
av Hiven, I cud play wid four women at wanst, an’ kape 
them from findin’ out anythin’ about the other three, an’ 
smile like a full-blown marigold through ut all. Dick Coul- 
han, av the battery we’ll have down on us to-night, could 
drive his team no betther than I mine, an’ I hild the worser 
cattle! An’ so I lived, an’ so I was happy till afther that 
business wid Annie Bragin — she that turned me off as cool 
as a meat-safe, an’ taught me where I stud in the mind av an 
honest woman. ’Twas no sweet dose to swallow. 

“Afther that I sickened awhile an’ tuk thought to my reg’- 
mental work; conceiting mesilf I wud study an’ be a sergint, 
an’ a major-gineral twinty minutes afther that. But on 
top av my ambitiousness there was an empty place in my 
sowl, an’ me own opinion av mesilf cud not fill ut. Sez I 


122 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


to mesilf, ‘Terence, you’re a great man an’ the best set-up 
in the reg’mint. Go on an’ get promotion.’ Sez mesilf 
to me, ‘What for?’ Sez I to mesilf, ‘For the glory av ut!’ 
Sez mesilf to me, ‘Will that fill these two strong arrums av 
yours, Terence?’ ‘Go to the devil,’ sez I to mesilf. ‘Go 
to the married lines,’ sez mesilf to me. ‘ ’Tis the same 
thing,’ sez I to mesilf. ‘Av you’re the same man, ut is,’ 
said mesilf to me; an’ wid that I considhered on ut a long 
while. Did you iver feel that way, sorr?” 

I snored gently, knowing that if Mulvaney were uninter- 
rupted he would go on. The clamor from the bivouac fires 
beat up to the stars, as the rival singers of the companies 
were pitted against each other. 

“So I felt that way an’ a bad time ut was. Wanst, bein’ 
a fool, I wint into the married lines more for the sake av 
spakin’ to our ould color-sergint Shadd than for any thruck 
wid women-folk. I was a corp’ril then — rejuced afther- 
wards, but a corp’ril then. I’ve got a photograft av mesilf 
to prove ut. ‘You’ll take a cup av tay wid us?’ sez Shadd 
‘I will that,’ I sez, ‘tho’ tay is not my divarsion.’ 

“ ‘’Twud be better for you if ut were,’ sez ould Mother 
Shadd, an’ she had ought to know, for Shadd, in the ind 
av his service, dhrank bung-full each night. 

“Wid that I tuk off my gloves — there was pipe-clay in 
thim, so that they stud alone — an’ pulled up my chair, 
lookin’ round at the china ornaments an’ bits av things in 
the Shadds’ quarters. They were things that belonged to a 
man, an’ no camp-kit, here to-day an’ dishipated next. 
‘You’re comfortable in this place, sergint,’ sez I. ‘’Tis 
the wife that did ut, boy,’ sez he, pointin’ the stem av his 
pipe to ould Mother Shadd, an’ she smacked the top av his 
bald head apon the compliment. ‘That manes you want 
money,’ sez she. 

“An’ thin — an’ thin whin the kettle was to be filled, 
Dinah came in — my Dinah — her sleeves rowled up to the 
elbow an’ her hair in a winkin’ glory over her forehead, the 
big blue eyes beneath twinklin’ like stars on a frosty night, 


THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD 123 

an’ the tread av her two feet lighter than waste-paper from 
the colonel’s basket in ord’ly-room whin ut’s emptied. 
Bein’ but a shlip av a girl she went pink at seein’ me, an’ I 
twisted me moustache an’ looked at a picture forninst the 
wall. Niver show a woman that ye care the snap av a finger 
for her, an’ begad she’ll come bleatin’ to your boot-heels!” 

“I suppose that’s why you followed Annie Bragin till 
everybody in the married quarters laughed at you,” said I, 
remembering that unhallowed wooing and casting off the 
disguise of drowsiness. 

“I’m layin’ down the gin’ral theory av the attack,” said 
Mulvaney, driving his boot into the dying fire. “If you 
read the Soldier’s Pocket Book , which niver any soldier reads, 
you’ll see that there are exceptions. Whin Dinah was out 
av the door (an’ ’twas as tho’ the sunlight had shut too) — 
‘Mother av Hiven, sergint,’ sez I, ‘but is that your daugh- 
ter?’ — ‘I’ve believed that way these eighteen years,’ sez 
ould Shadd, his eyes twinklin’; ‘but Mrs. Shadd has her 
own opinion, like iv’ry woman.’ — ‘ ’Tis wid yours this time, 
for a mericle,’ sez Mother Shadd. ‘Thin why in the name 
av fortune did I niver see her before?’ sez I. ‘Bekaze 
you’ve been thrapesin’ round wid the married women these 
three years past. She was a bit av a child till last year, an’ 
she shot up wid the spring,’ sez ould Mother Shadd. ‘I’ll 
thrapese no more,’ sez I. ‘D’you mane that?’ sez ould 
Mother Shadd, lookin’ at me side-ways like a hen looks at a 
hawk whin the chickens are runnin’ free. ‘Try me, an’ tell,’ 
sez I. Wid that I pulled on my gloves, dhrank off the tay 
an’ went out av the house as stiff as at gin’ral p’rade, for 
well I knew that Dinah Shadd’s eyes were in the small av 
my back out av the scullery window. Faith! that was the 
only time I mourned I was not a cav’lry-man for the pride 
av the spurs to jingle. 

“I wint out to think, an’ I did a powerful lot av thinkin’, 
but ut all came round to that shlip av a girl in the dotted 
blue dhress, wid the blue eyes an’ the sparkil in them. Thin 
I kept off canteen, an’ I kept to the married quarthers, or 


124 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


near by, on the chanst av meetin’ Dinah. Did I meet her? 
Oh, my time past, did I not; wid a lump in my throat as big 
as my valise an’ my heart goin’ like a farrier’s forge on a 
Saturday morning? ’Twas ‘Good day to ye, Miss Din- 
ah,’ an’ ‘Good day t’you, corp’ril,’ for a week or two, and 
divil a bit further could I get bekaze av the respect I had to 
that girl that I cud ha’ broken betune finger an’ thumb.” 

Here I giggled as I recalled the gigantic figure of Dinah 
Shadd when she handed me my shirt. 

“Ye may laugh,” grunted Mulvaney. “But I’m speakin’ 
the trut’, an’ ’tis you that are in fault. Dinah was a girl 
that wud ha’ taken the imperiousness out av the Duchess av 
Clonmel in those days. Flower hand, foot av shod air, an’ 
the eyes av the livin’ mornin’ she had that is my wife to-day 
— ould Dinah, and niver aught else than Dinah Shadd to me. 

“’Twas after three weeks standin’ off an’ on, an’ niver 
makin’ headway excipt through the eyes, that a little drum- 
mer-boy grinned in me face whin I had admonished him wid 
the buckle av my belt for riotin’ all over the place. ‘An’ 
I’m not the only wan that doesn’t kape to barricks,’ sez he. 
I tuk him by the scruff av his neck, — my heart was hung on 
a hair-thrigger those days, you will onderstand — an’ ‘Out 
wid ut,’ sez I, ‘or I’ll lave no bone av you unbreakable.’ — 
‘Speak to Dempsey,’ sez he howlin’. ‘Dempsey which?’ 
sez I, ‘ye unwashed limb av Satan.’ — ‘Av the Bob-tailed 
Dhragoons,’ sez he. ‘He’s seen her home from her aunt’s 
house in the civil lines four times this fortnight.’ — ‘Child!” 
sez I, dhroppin’ him, ‘your tongue’s stronger than your 
body. Go to your quarters. I’m sorry I dhressed you down.’ 

“At that I went four ways to wanst huntin’ Dempsey. 
I was mad to think that wid all my airs among women I 
shud ha’ been chated by a basin-faced fool av a cav’lry-man 
not fit to trust on a trunk. Presintly I found him in our 
lines — the Bobtails was quartered next us — an’ a tallowy, 
topheavy son av a she-mule he was wid his big brass spurs 
an’ his plastrons on his epigastrons an’ all. But he niver 
flinched a hair. 


THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD 125 


“‘A word wid you, Dempsey,’ sez I. ‘You’ve walked 
wid Dinah Shadd four times this fortnight gone.’ 

“‘What’s that to you?’ sez he. ‘I’ll walk forty times 
more, an’ forty on top av that, ye shovel-futted clod-breakin’ 
infantry lance-corp’ril.’ 

“Before I cud gyard he had his gloved fist home on my 
cheek an’ down I went full-sprawl. ‘Will that content 
you?’ sez he, blowin’ on his knuckles for all the world like 
a Scots Greys orf’cer. ‘Content!’ sez I. ‘For your own 
sake, man, take off your spurs, peel your jackut, an’ onglove. 
’Tis the beginnin’ av the overture; stand up!’ 

“He stud all he know, but he niver peeled his jackut, an’ 
his shoulders had no fair play. I was fightin’ for Dinah 
Shadd an’ that cut on my cheek. What hope had he for- 
ninst me? ‘Stand up,’ sez I, time an’ again whin he was 
beginnin’ to quarter the ground and gyard high an’ go large. 
‘This isn’t ridin’-school,’ I sez. ‘O man, stand up an’ let 
me get in at ye.’ But whin I saw he wud be runnin’ about, 
I grup his shtock in my left an’ his waist-belt in my right an’ 
swung him clear to my right front, head undher, he hammer- 
in’ my nose till the wind was knocked out av him on the bare 
ground. ‘Stand up,’ sez I, ‘or I’ll kick your head into your 
chest ! ’ and I wud ha’ done ut too, so ragin’ mad I was. 

“‘My collar-bone’s bruk,’ sez he. ‘Help me back to 
lines. I’ll walk wid her no more.’ So I helped him back.” 

“And was his collar-bone broken?” I asked, for I fancied 
that only Learoyd could neatly accomplish that terrible 
throw. 

“He pitched on his left shoulder-point. Ut was. Next 
day the news was in both barricks, an’ whin I met Dinah 
Shadd wid a cheek on me like all the reg’mintal tailor’s 
samples there was no ‘Good mornin’, corp’ril,’ or aught 
else. ‘An’ what have I done, Miss Shadd,’ sez I, very 
bould, plantin’ mesilf forninst her, ‘that ye should not pass 
the time of day?’ 

“‘Ye’ve half -killed rough-rider Dempsey,’ sez she, her 
dear blue eyes fillin’ up. 


126 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


‘“May be,’ sez I. ‘Was he a friend av yours that saw 
ye home four times in the fortnight?’ 

“‘Yes,’ sez she, but her mouth was down at the corners. 
‘An’ — an’ what’s that to you?’ she sez. 

“‘Ask Dempsey,’ sez I, purtendin’ to go away. 

“‘Did you fight for me then, ye silly man?’ she sez, tho’ 
she knew ut all along. 

“ ‘Who else?’ sez I, an’ I tuk wan pace to the front. 

“‘I wasn’t worth ut,’ sez she, fingerin’ in her apron. 

“ ‘That’s for me to say,’ sez I. ‘Shall I say ut?’ 

“‘Yes,’ sez she in a saint’s whisper, an’ at that I explained 
mesilf; and she tould me what ivry man that is a man, an’ 
many that is a woman, hears wanst in his life. 

“‘But what made ye cry at startin’, Dinah, darlin’?’ 
sez I. 

“‘Your — your bloody cheek,’ sez she, duckin’ her little 
head down on my sash (I was on duty for the day) an’ whimp- 
erin’ like a sorrowful angil. 

“Now a man cud take that two ways. I tuk ut as pleased 
me best an’ my first kiss wid ut. Mother av Innocence ! but 
I kissed her on the tip av the nose an’ undher the eye; an’ 
a girl that lets a kiss come tumbleways like that has never 
been kissed before. Take note av that, sorr. Thin we wint 
hand in hand to ould Mother Shadd like two little childher, 
an’ she said ’twas no bad thing, an’ ould Shadd nodded be- 
hind his pipe, an’ Dinah ran away to her own room. That 
day I throd on rollin’ clouds. All earth was too small to 
hould me. Begad, I cud ha’ hiked the sun out av the sky 
for a live coal to my pipe, so magnificent I was. But I tuk 
recruities at squad-drill instid, an’ began wid general bat- 
talion advance whin I shud ha’ been balance-steppin’ them. 
Eyah! that day! that day!” 

A very long pause. “Well?” said I. 

“’Twas all wrong,” said Mulvaney, with an enormous 
sigh. ‘An’ I know that ev’ry bit av ut was my own fool- 
ishness. That night I tuk maybe the half av three pints — 
not enough to turn the hair of a man in his natural senses. 


THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD 127 


But I was more than half drunk wid pure joy, an’ that can- 
teen beer was so much whisky to me. I can’t tell how it 
came about, but bekaze I had no thought for any wan except 
Dinah, bekaze I hadn’t slipped her little white arms from my 
neck five minutes, bekaze the breath of her kiss was not gone 
from my mouth, I must go through the married lines on my 
way to quarters an’ I must stay talkin’ to a red-headed 
Mullingar heifer av a girl, Judy Sheehy, that was daughter 
to Mother Sheehy, the wife of Nick Sheehy, the canteen- 
sergint — the Black Curse av Shielygh be on the whole brood 
that are above groun’ this day ! 

“ ‘An’ what are ye houldin’ your head that high for, corp- 
’ril?’ sez Judy. ‘Come in an’ thry a cup av tay,’ she sez, 
standin’ in the doorway. Bein’ an ontrustable fool, an’ 
thinkin’ av anything but tay, I wint. 

“‘Mother’s at canteen,’ sez Judy, smoothin’ the hair 
av hers that was like red snakes, an’ lookin’ at me cor- 
nerways out av her green cats’ eyes. ‘Ye will not mind, 
corp’ril?’ 

“‘I can endure,’ sez I; ould Mother Sheehy bein’ no divar- 
sion av mine, nor her daughter too. Judy fetched the tea 
things an’ put thim on the table, leanin’ over me very close to 
get thim square. I dhrew back, thinkin’ av Dinah. 

“ ‘Is ut afraid you are av a girl alone?’ sez Judy. 

“ ‘No,’ sez I. ‘Why should I be? ’ 

“‘That rests wid the girl,’ sez Judy, dhrawin’ her chair 
next to mine. 

“‘Thin there let ut rest,’ sez I; an’ thinkin’ I’d been a 
trifle onpolite, I sez, ‘The tay’s not quite sweet enough for 
my taste. Put your little finger in the cup, Judy. ’Twill 
make ut necthar.’ 

“‘What’s necthar?’ sez she. 

“‘Somethin’ very sweet,’ sez I; an’ for the sinful life av 
me I cud not help lookin’ at her out av the corner av my eye, 
as I was used to look at a woman. 

“‘Go on wid ye, corp’ril,’ sez she. ‘You’re a flirt.’ 

“‘On me sowl I’m not,’ sez I. 


128 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


‘“Then you’re a cruel handsome man, an’ that’s worse,’ 
sez she, heaving big sighs an’ lookin’ crossways. 

“ ‘You know your own mind,’ sez I. 

“ ‘’Twud be better for me if I did not,’ she sez. 

“‘There’s a dale to be said on both sides av that,’ sez I, 
unthinkin’. 

“‘Say your own part av ut, then, Terence, darlin’,’ sez she, 
‘for begad I’m thinkin’ I’ve said too much or too little for 
an honest girl,’ an’ wid that she put her arms round my neck 
an’ kissed me. 

“‘There’s no more to be said afther that,’ sez I, kissin’ 
her back again — Oh the mane scutt that I was, my head 
ringin’ wid Dinah Shadd! How does ut come about, sorr, 
that when a man has put the comether on wan woman, he’s 
sure bound to put it on another? ’Tis the same thing at 
musketry. Wan day ivry shot goes wide or into the bank, 
an’ the next, lay high lay low, sight or snap, ye can’t get off 
the bull’s-eye for ten shots runnin’.” 

“That only happens to a man who has had a good deal of 
experience. He does it without thinking,” I replied. 

“Thankin’ you for the complimint, sorr, ut may be so. 
But I’m doubtful whether you mint ut for a complimint. 
Hear now; I sat there wid Judy on my knee tellin’ me all 
manner av nonsinse an’ only sayin’ ‘yes’ an’ ‘no,’ when I’d 
much better ha’ kept tongue betune teeth. An’ that was not 
an hour afther I had left Dinah! What I was thinkin’ av 
I cannot say. Presintly, quiet as a cat, ould Mother Sheehy 
came in velvet-dhrunk. She had her daughter’s red hair, 
but ’twas bald in patches, an’ I cud see in her wicked ould face, 
clear as lightnin’, what Judy wud be twenty years to come. 
I was for jumpin’ up, but Judy niver moved. 

“‘Terence has promust, mother,’ sez she, an’ the could 
sweat bruk out all over me. Ould Mother Sheehy sat down 
of a heap an’ began playin’ wid the cups. ‘Thin you’re 
a well-matched pair,’ she sez very thick. ‘For he’s the 
biggest rogue that iver spoiled the queen’s shoe-leather’ 
an’ 


THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD 129 


“‘I’m off, Judy,’ sez I. ‘Ye should not talk nonsinse to 
your mother. Get her to bed, girl.’ 

“‘Nonsinse!’ sez the ould woman, prickin’ up her ears like 
a cat an’ grippin’ the table-edge. ‘’Twill be the most 
nonsinsical nonsinse for you, ye grinnin’ badger, if nonsinse 
’tis. Git clear, you. I’m goin’ to bed.’ 

“I ran out into the dhark, my head in a stew an’ my heart 
sick, but I had sinse enough to see that I’d brought ut all 
on mysilf. ‘It’s this to pass the time av day to a panjand- 
hrum av hell-cats,’ sez I. ‘What I’ve said, an’ what I’ve 
not said do not matther. Judy an’ her dam will hould me 
for a promust man, an’ Dinah will give me the go, an’ I 
desarve ut. I will go an’ get dhrunk,’ sez I, ‘an’ forget 
about ut, for ’tis plain I’m not a marryin’ man.’ 

“On my way to canteen I ran against Lascelles, color- 
sergint that was av E Comp’ny, a hard, hard man, wid a tor- 
ment av a wife. ‘You’ve the head av a drowned man on 
your shoulders,’ sez he; ‘an’ you’re goin’ where you’ll get a 
worse wan. Come back,’ sez he. ‘Let me go,’ sez I. 
‘I’ve thrown my luck over the wall wid my own hand!’ — 
‘Then that’s not the way to get ut back again,’ sez he. 
‘Have out wid your throuble, ye fool-bhoy.’ An’ I tould 
him how the matther was. 

“He sucked in his lower lip. ‘You’ve been thrapped,’ 
sez he. ‘ Ju Sheehy wud be the betther for a man’s name to 
hers as soon as can. An’ ye thought ye’d put the comether 
on her, — that’s the natural vanity of the baste. Terence, 
you’re a big born fool, but you’re not bad enough to marry 
into that comp’ny. If you said anythin’, an’ for all your 
protestations I’m sure ye did — or did not, which is worse, — 
eat ut all — lie like the father of all lies, but come out av ut 
free av Judy. Do I not know what ut is to marry a woman 
that was the very spit an’ image av Judy whin she was 
young? I’m gettin’ old an’ I’ve larnt patience, but you, 
Terence, you’d raise hand on Judy an’ kill her in a year. 
Never mind if Dinah gives you the go, you’ve desarved ut; 
never mind if the whole reg’mint laughs you all day. Get 


130 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


shut av Judy an’ her mother. They can’t dhrag you to 
church, but if they do, they’ll dhrag you to hell. Go back 
to your quarters and lie down,’ sez he. Thin over his 
shoulder/ You must ha’ done with thim.’ 

“Next day I wint to see Dinah, but there was no tucker 
in me as I walked. I knew the throuble wud come soon 
enough widout any handlin’ av mine, an’ I dreaded ut sore. 

“I heard Judy callin’ me, but I hild straight on to the 
Shadds’ quarthers, an’ Dinah wud ha’ kissed me but I put 
her back. 

“ ‘Whin all’s said, darlin Y sez I, ‘you can give ut me if ye 
will, tho’ I misdoubt ’twill be so easy to come by then.’ 

“I had scarce begun to put the explanation into shape 
before Judy an’ her mother came to the door. I think there 
was a veranda, but I’m forgettin’. 

“‘Will ye not step in?’ sez Dinah, pretty and polite, 
though the Shadds had no dealin’s with the Sheehys. Ould 
Mother Shadd looked up quick, an’ she was the fust to see 
the throuble; for Dinah was her daughter. 

‘“I’m pressed for time to-day,’ sez Judy as bould as brass; 
‘an’ I’ve only come for Terence, — my promust man. ’Tis 
strange to find him here the day afther the day.’ 

“Dinah looked at me as though I had hit her, an’ I an- 
swered straight. 

“‘There was some nonsinse last night at the Sheehys’ 
quarthers, an’ Judy’s carryin’ on the joke, darlin’,’ sez I. 

“‘At the Sheehys’ quarthers?’ sez Dinah very slow, an* 
Judy cut in wid: ‘He was there from nine till ten, Dinah 
Shadd, an’ the betther half av that time I was sittin’ on his 
knee, Dinah Shadd. Ye may look and ye may look an’ 
ye may look me up an’ down, but ye won’t look away 
that Terence is my promust man. Terence, darlin’, ’tis 
time for us to be cornin’ home.’ 

“Dinah Shadd niver said word to Judy. ‘Ye left me at 
half -past eight,’ she sez to me, ‘an’ I niver thought that ye’d 
leave me for Judy, — promises or no promises. Go back wid 
her, you that have to be fetched by a girl! I’m done with 


THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD 131 

you,’ sez she and she ran into her own room, her mother 
followin’. So I was alone wid those two women and at 
liberty to spake my sentiments. 

“ ‘Judy Sheehy,’ sez I, ‘if you made a fool av me betune the 
lights you shall not do ut in the day. I niver promised you 
words or lines.’ 

“‘You lie,’ sez ould Mother Sheehy, ‘an’ may ut choke 
you where you stand ! ’ She was far gone in dhrink. 

“‘An’ tho’ ut choked me where I stud I’d not change,’ 
sez I. ‘Go home, Judy. I take shame for a decent girl like 
you dhraggin’ your mother out bare-headed on this errand. 
Hear now, and have ut for an answer. I gave my word to 
Dinah Shadd yesterday, an’ more blame to me, I was wid 
you last night talkin’ nonsinse but nothin’ more. You’ve 
chosen to thry to hould me on ut. I will not be held thereby 
for anythin’ in the world. Is that enough?’ 

“Judy wint pink all over. ‘An’ I wish you joy av the per- 
jury,’ sez she, duckin’ a curtsey. ‘You’ve lost a woman that 
would ha’ wore her hand to the bone for your pleasure; an’ 
’deed, Terence, ye were not thrapped. . . .’Lascelles 

must ha’ spoken plain to her. ‘I am such as Dinah is — 
’deed I am! Ye’ve lost a fool av a girl that’ll niver look at 
you again, an’ ye’ve lost what ye niver had, — your common 
honesty. If you manage your men as you manage your 
love-makin’, small wondher they call you the worst corp’ril 
in the comp’ny. Come away, mother,’ sez she. 

“But divil a fut would the ould woman budge! ‘D’you 
hould by that?’ sez she, peerin’ up under her thick gray 
eyebrows. 

“‘Ay, an’ wud,’ sez I, ‘tho’ Dinah give me the go twinty 
times. I’ll have no thruck with you or yours,’ sez I. ‘Take 
your child away, ye shameless woman.’ 

“‘An’ am I shameless?’ sez she, bringin’ her hands up 
above her head. ‘Thin what are you, ye lyin’, schamin’, 
weak-kneed, dhirty-souled son av a sutler? Am I shameless? 
Who put the open shame on me an’ my child that we shud 
go beggin’ through the lines in the broad daylight for the 


132 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


broken word of a man? Double portion of my shame be on 
you, Terence Mulvaney, that think yourself so strong! By 
Mary and the saints, by blood and water an’ by ivry sorrow 
that came into the world since the beginnin’, the black blight 
fall on you and yours, so that you may niver be free from 
pain for another when ut’s not your owm ! May your heart 
bleed in your breast drop by drop wid all your friends 
laughin’ at the bleedin’! Strong you think yourself? May 
your strength be a curse to you to dhrive you into the 
divil’s hands against your own will! Clear-eyed you are? 
May your eyes see clear ivry step av the dark path you take 
till the hot cindhers av hell put thim out! May the ragin’ 
dry thirst in my own ould bones go to you that you shall 
niver pass bottle full nor glass empty. God preserve the 
light av your onderstandin’ to you, my jewel av a bhoy, 
that ye may niver forget what you mint to be an’ do, whin 
you’re wallowin’ in the muck! May ye see the betther and 
follow the worse as long as there’s breath in your body; an’ 
may ye die quick in a strange land, watchin’ your death 
before ut takes you, an’ onable to stir hand or foot ! ’ 

“I heard a scufflin’ in the room behind, and thin Dinah 
Shadd’s hand dhropped into mine like a roseleaf into a muddy 
road. 

“‘The half av that I’ll take,’ sez she, ‘an’ more too if I can. 
Go home, ye silly talkin’ woman, — go home an’ confess.” 

“ ‘Come away ! Come away ! ’ sez Judy, pullin’ her mother 
by the shawl. ‘’Twas none av Terence’s fault. For the love 
av Mary stop the talkin’!’ 

“‘An’ you!’ said ould Mother Sheehy, spinnin’ round 
forninst Dinah. ‘Will ye take the half av that man’s load? 
Stand off from him, Dinah Shadd, before he takes you down 
too — you that look to be a quarther-master-sergeant’s wife 
in five years. You look too high, child. You shall wash 
for the quarther-master-sergeant, whin he pleases to give 
you the job out av charity; but a privit’s wife you shall be 
to the end, an’ ivry sorrow of a privit’s wife you shall know 
and niver a joy but wan, that shall go from you like the run- 


THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD 133 


ning tide from a rock. The pain av bearin’ you shall know 
but niver the pleasure av giving the breast; an’ you shall 
put away a man-child into the common ground wid niver a 
priest to say a prayer over him, an’ on that man-child ye 
shall think ivry day av your life. Think long, Dinah Shadd, 
for you’ll niver have another tho’ you pray till your knees 
are bleedin’. The mothers av childher shall mock you be- 
hind your back when you’re wringing over the wash tub. 
You shall know what ut is to help a dhrunken husband home 
an’ see him go to the gyard-room. Will that plase you, 
Dinah Shadd, that won’t be seen talkin’ to my daughter? 
You shall talk to worse than Judy before all’s over. The 
sergints’ wives shall look down on you contemptuous, 
daughter av a sergint, an’ you shall cover ut all up wid a 
smiling face when your heart’s burstin’. Stand off av him, 
Dinah Shadd, for I’ve put the Black Curse of Shielygh upon 
him an’ his own mouth shall make ut good.’ 

“She pitched forward on her head an’ began foamin’ at 
the mouth. Dinah Shadd ran out wid water, an’ Judy 
dhragged the ould woman into the veranda till she sat up. 

“‘I’m old an,forlore,’ she sez, thremblin’ an’ cryin’, ‘and 
’tis like I say a dale more than I mane.’ 

“‘When you’re able to walk, — go,’ says ould Mother 
Shadd. ‘This house has no place for the likes av you that 
have cursed my daughter.’ 

‘“Eyah!” said the ould woman. ‘Hard words break no 
bones, an’ Dinah Shadd ’ll kape the love av her husband till 
my bones are green corn. Judy darlin’, I misremember 
what I came here for. Can you lend us the bottom av a 
taycup av tay, Mrs. Shadd?’ 

“But Judy dhragged her off cryin’ as tho’ her heart wud 
break. An’ Dinah Shadd an’ I, in ten minutes we had 
forgot ut all.” 

“Then why do you remember it now?” said I. 

“ Is ut like I’d forget? Ivry word that wicked ould woman 
spoke fell thrue in my life aftherwards, an’ I cud ha’ stud ut 
all — stud ut all — except when my little Shadd was born. 


134 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


That was on the line av march three months afther the regi- 
ment was taken with cholera. We were betune Umballa an* 
Kalka thin, an* I was on picket. Whin I came off duty the 
women showed me the child, an’ ut turned on uts side an’ 
died as I looked. We buried him by the road, an’ Father 
Victor was a day’s march behind wid the heavy baggage, so 
the comp’ny captain read a prayer. An’ since then I’ve 
been a childless man, an’ all else that ould Mother Sheehy 
put upon me an’ Dinah Shadd. What do you think, sorr?” 

I thought a good deal, but it seemed better then to reach 
out for Mulvaney’s hand. The demonstration nearly cost 
me the use of three fingers. Whatever he knows of his 
weaknesses, Mulvaney is entirely ignorant of his strength. 

“But what do you think? ” he repeated, as I was straighten- 
ing out the crushed fingers. 

My reply was drowned in yells and outcries from the 
next fire, where ten men were shouting for “Orth’ris,” 
“Privit Orth’ris,” “Mistah Or — ther — ris ! ” “Deah boy,” 
“Cap’n Orth’ris,” “Field-Marshal Orth’ris,” “Stanley, you 
pen’north o’ pop, come ’ere to your own comp’ny!” And 
the cockney, who had been delighting another audience with 
recondite and Rabelaisian yarns, was shot down among his 
admirers by the major force. 

“You’ve crumpled my dress-shirt ’orrid,” said he, “an’ 
I shan’t sing no more to this ’ere bloomin’ drawin’-room.” 

Learoyd, roused by the confusion, uncoiled himself, crept 
behind Ortheris, and slung him aloft on his shoulders. 

“Sing, ye bloomin’ hummin’ bird!” said he, and Ortheris, 
beating time on Learoyd’s skull, delivered himself, in the 
raucous voice of the Ratcliffe Highway, of this song : — 

My girl she give me the go onst. 

When I was a London lad, 

An’ I went on the drink for a fortnight. 

An’ then I went to the bad. 

The Queen she give me a shillin’ 

To fight for ’er over the seas; 

But Guv’ment built me a fever-trap. 

An’ Injia give me disease. 


135 


THE COURTING OF DINAH SHADD 

Chorus 

Ho ! don’t you ’eed what a girl says. 

An’ don’t you go for the beer; 

But I was an ass when I was at grass. 

An’ that is why I’m ’ere. 


I fired a shot at a Afghan, 

The beggar ’e fired again. 

An’ I lay on my bed with a ’ole in my ’ed; 

An’ missed the next campaign! 

I up with my gun at a Burman 
Who carried a bloomin’ dah. 

But the cartridge stuck and the bay’nit bruk, 
An’ all I got was the scar. 


Chorus 

Ho! don’t you aim at a Afghan 

When you stand on the sky-line clear; 
An’ don’t you go for a Burman 
If none o’ your friends is near. 


I served my time for a corp’ral. 

An’ wetted my stripes with pop. 

For I went on the bend with a intimate friend 
An’ finished the night in the “shop.” 

I served my time for a sergeant; 

The colonel ’e sez “No! 

The most you’ll see is a full C. B.” 1 
An’ . . . very next night ’twas so. 

Chorus 

Ho! don’t you go for a corp’ral 
Unless your ’ed is clear; 

But I was an ass when I was at grass. 

An’ that is why I’m ’ere. 


I’ve tasted the luck o’ the army 
In barrack an’ camp an’ clink. 

An’ I lost my tip through the bloomin’ trip 
Along o’ the women an’ drink. 

I’m down at the heel o’ my service 
An’ when I am laid on the shelf. 

My very wust friend from beginning to end 
By the blood of a mouse was myself! 


Confined to barracks. 


136 STORIES FROM KIPLING 

Chorus 

Ho! don’t you ’eed what a girl says. 

An’ don’t you go for the beer; 

But I was an ass when I was at grass. 

An’ that is why I’m ’ere. 

“Ay, listen to our little man now, singin’ an’ shoutin’ as 
tho’ trouble had niver touched him. D’you remember 
when he went mad with the home-sickness? ” said Mulvaney, 
recalling a never-to-be-forgotten season when Ortheris 
waded through the deep waters of affliction and behaved 
abominably. “ Rut he’s talkin’ bitter truth, though. Eyah ! 

“ My very worst frind from beginnin* to ind 
By the blood av a mouse was mesilf!” 


When I woke I saw Mulvaney, the night-dew gemming 
his moustache, leaning on his rifle at picket, lonely as Prome- 
theus on his rock, with I know not what vultures tearing his 
liver. 


THE MAN WHO WAS 
( 1890 ) 

The Earth gave up her dead that tide, 

Into our camp he came. 

And said his say, and went his way. 

And left our hearts aflame. 

Keep tally — on the gun-butt score 
The vengeance we must take. 

When God shall bring full reckoning, 

For our dead comrade’s sake. 

Ballad. 

Let it be clearly understood that the Russian is a delightful 
person till he tucks in his shirt. As an Oriental he is charm- 
ing. It is only when he insists upon being treated as the 
most easterly of western peoples instead of the most westerly 
of easterns that he becomes a racial anomaly extremely dif- 
ficult to handle. The host never knows which side of his 
nature is going to turn up next. 

Dirkovitch was a Russian — a Russian of the Russians — • 
who appeared to get his bread by serving the Czar as an 
officer in a Cossack regiment, and corresponding for a Rus- 
sian newspaper with a name that was never twice alike. He 
was a handsome young Oriental, fond of wandering through 
unexplored portions of the earth, and he arrived in India 
from nowhere in particular. At least no living man could 
ascertain whether it was by way of Balkh, Badakshan, 
Chitral, Beluchistan, or Nepaul, or anywhere else. The 
Indian Government, being in an unusually affable mood, 
gave orders that he was to be civilly treated and shown 
everything that was to be seen. So he drifted, talking bad 
English and worse French, from one city to another, till he 

137 


138 


STORIES FROM KIPJNG 


foregathered with Her Majesty’s White Hussars in the city 
of Peshawur, which stands at the moLth of that narrow 
swordcut in the hills that men call the Ihyber Pass. He 
was undoubtedly an officer, and he was decorated after the 
manner of the Russians with little enameled crosses, and he 
could talk, and (though this has nothing to do with his 
merits) he had been given up as a hopeless task, or cask, by 
the Black Tyrone, who individually and collectively, with 
hot whisky and honey, mulled brandy, and mixed spirits 
of every kind, had striven in all hospitality to make him 
drunk. And when the Black Tyrone, who are exclusively 
Irish, fail to disturb the peace of head of a foreigner — that 
foreigner is certain to be a superior man. 

The White Hussars were as conscientious in choosing their 
wine as in charging the enemy. All that they possessed, in- 
cluding some wondrous brandy, was placed at the absolute 
disposition of Dirkovitch, and he enjoyed himself hugely — 
even more than among the Black Tyrones. 

But he remained distressingly European through it all. 
The White Hussars were “My dear true friends,” “Fellow- 
soldiers glorious,” and “Brothers inseparable.” He would 
unburden himself by the hour on the glorious future that 
awaited the combined arms of England and Russia when 
their hearts and their territories should run side by side and 
the great mission of civilizing Asia should begin. That was 
unsatisfactory, because Asia is not going to be civilized after 
the methods of the West. There is too much Asia and she 
is too old. You cannot reform a lady of many lovers, and 
Asia has been insatiable in her flirtations aforetime. She 
will never attend Sunday-school or learn to vote save with 
swords for tickets. 

Dirkovitch knew this as well as any one else, but it suited 
him to talk special-correspondently and to make himself as 
genial as he could. Now and then he volunteered a little, 
a very little, information about his own sotnia of Cossacks, 
left apparently to look after themselves somewhere at the 
back of beyond. He had done rough work in Central Asia, 


THE MAN WHO WAS 


139 


and had seen rather more help-yourself fighting than most 
men of his years. But he was careful never to betray his 
superiority, and more than careful to praise on all occasions 
the appearance, drill, uniform, and organization of Her 
Majesty’s White Hussars. And indeed they were a regi- 
ment to be admired. When Lady Durgan, widow of the 
late Sir John Durgan, arrived in their station, and after a 
short time had been proposed to by every single man at mess, 
she put the public sentiment very neatly when she explained 
that they were all so nice that unless she could marry them 
all, including the colonel and some majors already married, 
she was not going to content herself with one hussar. Where- 
fore she wedded a little man in a rifle regiment, being by 
nature contradictious; and the White Hussars were going to 
wear crape on their arms, but compromised by attending the 
wedding in full force, and lining the aisle with unutterable 
reproach. She had jilted them all — from Basset-Holmer the 
senior captain to little Mildred the junior subaltern, who could 
have given her four thousand a year and a title. 

The only persons who did not share the general regard 
for the White Hussars were a few thousand gentlemen of 
Jewish extraction who lived across the border, and answered 
to the name of Pathan. They had once met the regiment 
officially and for something less than twenty minutes, but 
the interview, which was complicated with many casualties, 
had filled them with prejudice. They even called the White 
Hussars children of the devil and sons of persons whom it 
would be perfectly impossible to meet in decent society. 
Yet they were not above making their aversion fill their 
money-belts. The regiment possessed carbines — beautiful 
Martini-Henri carbines that would lob a bullet into an 
enemy’s camp at one thousand yards, and were even handier 
than the long rifle. Therefore they were coveted all along 
the border, and since demand inevitably breeds supply, 
they were supplied at the risk of life ^and limb for exactly 
their weight in coined silver — seven and one-half pounds 
weight of rupees, or sixteen pounds sterling reckoning the 


140 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


rupee at par. They were stolen at night by snaky-haired 
thieves who crawled on their stomachs under the nose of 
the sentries; they disappeared mysteriously from locked 
arm-racks, and in the hot weather, when all the barrack 
doors and windows were open, they vanished like puffs of 
their own smoke. The border people desired them for 
family vendettas and contingencies. But in the long cold 
nights of the northern Indian winter they were stolen most 
extensively. The traffic of murder was liveliest among the 
hills at that season, and prices ruled high. The regimental 
guards were first doubled and then trebled. A trooper 
does not much care if he loses a weapon — Government must 
make it good — but he deeply resents the loss of his sleep. 
The regiment grew very angry, and one rifle-thief bears the 
visible marks of their anger upon him to this hour. That 
incident stopped the burglaries for a time, and the guards 
were reduced accordingly, and the regiment devoted itself 
to polo with unexpected results; for it beat by two goals to 
one that very terrible polo corps the Lushkar Light Horse, 
though the latter had four ponies apiece for a short hour’s 
fight, as well as a native officer who played like a lambent 
flame across the ground. 

They gave a dinner to celebrate the event. The Lushkar 
team came, and Dirkovitch came, in the fullest full uniform 
of a Cossack officer, which is as full as a dressing-gown, and 
was introduced to the Lushkars, and opened his eyes as he 
regarded. They were lighter men than the Hussars, and they 
carried themselves with the swing that is the peculiar right 
of the Punjab Frontier Force and all Irregular Horse. Like 
everything else in the Service it has to be learnt, but, unlike 
many things, it is never forgotten, and remains on the body 
till death. 

The great beam-roofed mess-room of the White Hussars 
was a sight to be remembered. All the mess plate was out 
on the long table — the same table that had served up the 
bodies of five officers after a forgotten fight long and long 
ago — the dingy, battered standards faced the door of en- 


THE MAN WHO WAS 


141 


trance, clumps of winter-roses lay between the silver candle- 
sticks, and the portraits of eminent officers deceased looked 
down on their successors from between the heads of samb- 
hur, nilghai, markhor, and, pride of all the mess, two grinning 
snow-leopards that had cost Basset-Holmer four months’ 
leave that he might have spent in England, instead of on 
the road to Thibet and the daily risk of his life by ledge, 
snow-slide, and grassy slope. 

The servants in spotless white muslin and the crest of 
their regiments on the brow of their turbans waited behind 
their masters, who were clad in the scarlet and gold of the 
White Hussars, and the cream and silver of the Lushkar 
Light Horse. Dirkovitch’s dull green uniform was the only 
dark spot at the board, but his big onyx eyes made up for it. 
He was fraternizing effusively with the captain of the Lush- 
kar team, who was wondering how many of Dirkovitch’s 
Cossacks his own dark wiry down-countrymen could account 
for in a fair charge. But one does not speak of these things 
openly. 

The talk rose higher and higher, and the regimental band 
played between the courses, as is the immemorial custom, 
till all tongues ceased for a moment with the removal of the 
dinner-slips and the first toast of obligation, when an officer 
rising said, “Mr. Vice, the Queen,” and little Mildred from 
the bottom of the table answered, “The Queen, God bless 
her,” and the big spurs clanked as the big men heaved them- 
selves up and drank the Queen upon whose pay they were 
falsely supposed to settle their mess-bills. That Sacrament 
of the Mess never grows old, and never ceases to bring a 
lump into the throat of the listener wherever he be by sea 
or by land. Dirkovitch rose with his “brothers glorious,” 
but he could not understand. No one but an officer can tell 
what the toast means; and the bulk have more sentiment 
than comprehension. Immediately after the little silence 
that follows on the ceremony there entered the native officer 
who had played for the Lushkar team. He could not, of 
course, eat with the mess, but he came in at dessert, all six 


142 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


feet of him, with the blue and silver turban atop, and the 
big black boots below. The mess rose joyously as he thrust 
forward the hilt of his sabre in token of fealty for the colonel 
of the White Hussars to touch, and dropped into a vacant 
chair amid shouts of : “ Rung ho , Hira Singh!” (which being 

translated means “Go in and win”). “Did I whack you 
over the knee, old man?” “Ressaidar Sahib, what the devil 
made you play that kicking pig of a pony in the last ten 
minutes?” “ Shabash, Ressaidar Sahib!” Then the voice 
of the colonel, “The health of Ressaidar Hira Singh!” 

After the shouting had died away Hira Singh rose to reply, 
for he was the cadet of a royal house, the son of a king’s son, 
and knew what was due on these occasions. Thus he spoke 
in the vernacular: — “Colonel Sahib and officers of this regi- 
ment. Much honor have you done me. This will I remem- 
ber. We came down from afar to play you. But we were 
beaten.” (“No fault of yours, Ressaidar Sahib. Played 
on our own ground y’know. Your ponies were cramped 
from the railway. Don’t apologize!”) “Therefore per- 
haps we will come again if it be so ordained.” (“Hear! 
Hear! Hear, indeed! Bravo! Hsh!”) “Then we will 
play you afresh” (“Happy to meet you.”) “till there are left 
no feet upon our ponies. Thus far for sport.” He dropped 
one hand on his sword-hilt and his eye wandered to Dirko- 
vitch lolling back in his chair. “But if by the will of God 
there arises any other game which is not the polo game, then 
be assured, Colonel Sahib and officers, that we will play it 
out side by side, though they” again his eye sought Dirko- 
vitch, “though they I say have fifty ponies to our one 
horse.” And with a deep-mouthed Rung ho ! that sounded 
like a musket-butt on flagstones he sat down amid leaping 
glasses. 

Dirkovitch, who had devoted himself steadily to the 
brandy — the terrible brandy aforementioned — did not under- 
stand, nor did the expurgated translations offered to him at 
all convey the point. Decidedly Hira Singh’s was the 
speech of the evening, and the clamor might have 


THE MAN WHO WAS 


143 


continued to the dawn had it not been broken by the 
noise of a shot without that sent every man feeling 
at his defenceless left side. Then there was a scuffle and 
a yell of pain. 

“Carbine-stealing again!” said the adjutant, calmly 
sinking back in his chair. “This comes of reducing the 
guards. I hope the sentries have killed him.” 

The feet of armed men pounded on the veranda flags, 
and it was as though something was being dragged. 

“Why don’t they put him in the cells till the morning?” 
said the colonel testily. “See if they’ve damaged him, 
sergeant.” 

The mess sergeant fled out into the darkness and returned 
with two troopers and a corporal, all very much perplexed. 

“Caught a man stealin’ carbines, sir,” said the corporal. 
“Leastways ’e was crawlin’ towards the barricks, sir, past 
the main road sentries, an’ the sentry ’e sez, sir ” 

The limp heap of rags upheld by the three men groaned. 
Never was seen so destitute and demoralized an Afghan. 
He was turbanless, shoeless, caked with dirt, and all but dead 
with rough handling. Hira Singh started slightly at the 
sound of the man’s pain. Dirkovitch took another glass 
of brandy. 

“ What does the sentry say?” said the colonel. 

“Sez ’e speaks English, sir,” said the corporal. 

“So you brought him into mess instead of handing him 
over to the sergeant! If he spoke all the Tongues of the 
Pentecost you’ve no business ” 

Again the bundle groaned and muttered. Little Mildred 
had risen from his place to inspect. He jumped back as 
though he had been shot. 

“Perhaps it would be better, sir, to send the men away,” 
said he to the colonel, for he was a much privileged subaltern. 
He put his arms round the ragbound horror as he spoke, and 
dropped him into a chair. It may not have been explained 
that the littleness of Mildred lay in his being six feet four and 
big in proportion. The corporal seeing that an officer was 


144 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


disposed to look after the capture, and that the colonel’s 
eye was beginning to blaze, promptly removed himself and 
his men. The mess was left alone with the carbine-thief, 
who laid his head on the table and wept bitterly, hopelessly, 
and inconsolably, as little children weep. 

Hira Singh leapt to his feet. “Colonel Sahib,” said he, 
“that man is no Afghan, for they weep Ai ! Ai! Nor is 
he of Hindustan, for they weep Oh! Ho! He weeps after 
the fashion of the white men, who say Ow ! Ow /” 

“Now where the dickens did you get that knowledge, 
Hira Singh?” said the captain of the Lushkar team. 

“Hear him!” said Hira Singh simply, pointing at the 
crumpled figure that wept as though it would never cease. 

“He said, ‘My God!’” said little Mildred. “I heard 
him say it.” 

The colonel and the mess-room looked at the man in silence. 
It is a horrible thing to hear a man cry. A woman can sob 
from the top of her palate, or her lips, or anywhere else, but a 
man must cry from his diaphragm, and it rends him to pieces. 

“Poor devil!” said the colonel, coughing tremendously. 
“ We ought to send him to hospital. He’s been manhandled.” 

Now the adjutant loved his carbines. They were to him 
as his grandchildren, the men standing in the first place. 
He grunted rebelliously : “I can understand an Afghan 
stealing, because he’s built that way. But I can’t under- 
stand his crying. That makes it worse.” 

The brandy must have affected Dirkovitch, for he lay 
back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. There was 
nothing special in the ceiling beyond a shadow as of a huge 
black coffin. Owing to some peculiarity in the construction 
of the mess-room this shadow was always thrown when the 
candles were lighted. It never disturbed the digestion of 
the White Hussars. They were in fact rather proud of it. 

“Is he going to cry all night?” said the colonel, “or are 
we supposed to sit up with little Mildred’s guest until he 
feels better?” 

The man in the chair threw up his head and stared at the 


THE MAN WHO WAS 


145 


mess. “Oh, my God!” he said, and every soul in the mess 
rose to his feet. Then the Lushkar captain did a deed for 
which he ought to have been given the Victoria Cross — dis- 
tinguished gallantry in a fight against overwhelming curiosity. 
He picked up his team with his eyes as the hostess picks up 
the ladies at the opportune moment, and pausing only by 
the colonel’s chair to say, “This isn’t our affair, you know, 
sir,” led them into the veranda and the gardens. Hira 
Singh was the last to go, and he looked at Dirkovitch. But 
Dirkovitch had departed into a brandy-paradise of his own. 
His lips moved without sound and he was studying the 
coffin on the ceiling. 

“White — white all over,” said Basset-Holmer, the ad- 
jutant. “What a pernicious renegade he must be! I 
wonder where he came from? ” 

The colonel shook the man gently by the arm, and “Who 
are you?” said he. 

There was no answer. The man stared round the mess- 
room and smiled in the colonel’s face. Little Mildred, who 
was always more of a woman than a man till “Boot and 
saddle” was sounded, repeated the question in a voice that 
would have drawn confidences from a geyser. The man only 
smiled. Dirkovitch at the far end of the table slid gently 
from his chair to the floor. No son of Adam in this present 
imperfect world can mix the Hussars’ champagne with the 
Hussars’ brandy by five and eight glasses of each without 
remembering the pit whence he was digged and descending 
thither. The band began to play the tune with which the 
White Hussars from the date of their formation have con- 
cluded all their functions. They would sooner be disbanded 
than abandon that tune; it is a part of their system. The 
man straightened himself in his chair and drummed on 
the table with his fingers. 

“I don’t see why we should entertain lunatics,” said the 
colonel. “Call a guard and send him off to the cells. 
We’ll look into the business in the morning. Give him a 
glass of wine first though.” 


146 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


Little Mildred filled a sherry-glass with the brandy and 
thrust it over to the man. He drank, and the tune rose 
louder, and he straightened himself yet more. Then he 
put out his long-taloned hands to a piece of plate opposite 
and fingered it lovingly. There was a mystery connected 
with that piece of plate, in the shape of a spring which con- 
verted what was a seven-branched candlestick, three springs 
on each side and one in the middle, into a sort of wheel- 
spoke candelabrum. He found the spring, pressed it, and 
laughed weakly. He rose from his chair and inspected a 
picture on the wall, then moved on to another picture, the 
mess watching him without a word. When he came to the 
mantelpiece he shook his head and seemed distressed. A 
piece of plate representing a mounted hussar in full uniform 
caught his eye. He pointed to it, and then to the man- 
telpiece with inquiry in his eyes. 

“What is it — Oh what is it?” said little Mildred. Then 
as a mother might speak to a child, “That is a horse. Yes, 
a horse.” 

Very slowly came the answer in a thick, passionless gut- 
tural — “Yes, I — have seen. But — where is the horse?” 

You could have heard the hearts of the mess beating as 
the men drew back to give the stranger full room in his 
wanderings. There was no question of calling the guard. 

Again he spoke — very slowly, “Where is our horse?” 

There is but one horse in the White Hussars, and his por- 
trait hangs outside the door of the mess-room. He is the 
piebald drum-horse, the king of the regimental band, that 
served the regiment for seven-and-thirty years, and in the 
end was shot for old age. Half the mess tore the thing down 
from its place and thrust it into the man’s hands. He 
placed it above the mantelpiece, it clattered on the ledge as 
his poor hands dropped it, and he staggered towards the 
bottom of the table, falling into Mildred’s chair. Then all 
the men spoke to one another something after this fashion, 
“The drum-horse hasn’t hung over the mantelpiece since 
’67.” “How does he know?” “Mildred, go and speak to 


147 


THE MAN WHO WAS 

him again.” “Colonel, what are you going to do?” “Oh, 
dry up, and give the poor devil a chance to pull himself to- 
gether.” “It isn’t possible anyhow. The man’s a lunatic.” 

Little Mildred stood at the colonel’s side talking in his 
ear. “Will you be good enough to take your seats please, 
gentlemen!” he said, and the mess dropped into the chairs. 
Only Dirkovitch’s seat, next to little Mildred’s, was blank, 
and little Mildred himself had found Hira Singh’s place. 
The wide-eyed mess-sergeant filled the glasses in deep 
silence. Once more the colonel rose, but his hand shook 
and the port spilled on the table as he looked straight at the 
man in little Mildred’s chair and said hoarsely, “Mr. Vice, 
the Queen.” There was a little pause, but the man sprung 
to his feet and answered without hesitation, “The Queen, 
God bless her!” and as he emptied the thin glass he snapped 
the shank between his fingers. 

Long and long ago, when the Empress of India was a young 
woman and there were no unclean ideals in the land, it was 
the custom of a few messes to drink the Queen’s toast in 
broken glass, to the vast delight of the mess-contractors. 
The custom is now dead, because there is nothing to break 
anything for, except now and again the word of a Govern- 
ment, and that has been broken already. 

“That settles it,” said the colonel, with a gasp. “He’s 
not a sergeant. What in the world is he?” 

The entire mess echoed the word, and the volley of ques- 
tions would have scared any man. It was no wonder that 
the ragged, filthy invader could only smile and shake his 
head. 

From under the table, calm and smiling, rose Dirkovitch, 
who had been roused from healthful slumber by feet upon 
his body. By the side of the man he rose, and the man 
shrieked and groveled. It was a horrible sight coming so 
swiftly upon the pride and glory of the toast that had brought 
the strayed wits together. 

Dirkovitch made no offer to raise him, but little Mildred 
heaved him up in an instant. It is not good that a gentle- 


148 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


man who can answer to the Queen’s toast should lie at the 
feet of a subaltern of Cossacks. 

The hasty action tore the wretch’s upper clothing nearly 
to the waist, and his body was seamed with dry black scars. 
There is only one weapon in the world that cuts in parallel 
lines, and it is neither the cane nor the cat. Dirkovitch saw 
the marks, and the pupils of his eyes dilated. Also his face 
changed. He said something that sounded like Shto ve 
takete, and the man fawning answered, Chetyre. 

“What’s that?” said everybody together. 

“His number. That is number four, you know.” Dirko- 
vitch spoke very thickly. 

“What has a Queen’s officer to do with a qualified num- 
ber?” said the colonel, and an unpleasant growl ran round 
the table. 

“How can I tell?” said the affable Oriental with a sweet 
smile. “He is a — how you have it? — escape — run-a-way, 
from over there.” He nodded toward the darkness of the 
night. 

“Speak to him if he’ll answer you, and speak to him 
gently,” said little Mildred, settling the man in a chair. It 
seemed most improper to all present that Dirkovitch should 
sip brandy as he talked in purring, spitting Russian to the 
creature who answered so feebly and with such evident 
dread. But since Dirkovitch appeared to understand no 
one said a word. All breathed heavily, leaning forward, in 
the long gaps of the conversation. The next time that they 
have no engagements on hand the White Hussars intend 
to go to St. Petersburg in a body to learn Russian. 

“He does not know how many years ago,” said Dirko- 
vitch, facing the mess, “but he says it was very long ago in 
a war. I think that there was an accident. He says he 
was of this glorious and distinguished regiment in the 
war.” 

“The rolls! The rolls! Holmer, get the rolls!” said 
little Mildred, and the adjutant dashed off bare-headed to 
the orderly-room, where the muster-rolls of the regiment 


THE MAN WHO WAS 


149 


were kept. He returned just in time to hear Dirkovitch 
conclude/* Therefore, my dear friends, I am most sorry to 
say there was an accident which would have been reparable 
if he had apologized to that our colonel, which he had in- 
sulted.’ * 

Then followed another growl which the colonel tried to 
beat down. The mess was in no mood just then to weigh 
insults to Russian colonels. 

“He does not remember, but I think that there was an 
accident, and so he was not exchanged among the prisoners, 
but he was sent to another place — how do you say? — the 
country. So, he says, he came here. He does not know 
how he came. Eh? He was at Chepany” — the man caught 
the word, nodded, and shivered — “at Zhigansk and Ir- 
kutsk. I cannot understand how he escaped. He says, too, 
that he was in the forests for many years, but how many 
years he has forgotten — that with many things. It was an 
accident; done because he did not apologize to that our colo- 
nel. Ah!” 

Instead of echoing Dirkovitch’s sigh of regret, it is sad to 
record that the White Hussars livelily exhibited un-Christian 
delight and other emotions, hardly restrained by their sense 
of hospitality. Holmer flung the frayed and yellow regi- 
mental rolls on the table, and the men flung themselves 
at these 

“ Steady! Fifty-six — fifty-five — fifty-four,” said Hol- 
mer. “Here we are. ‘Lieutenant Austin Limmason. 
Missing .’ That was before Sebastopol. What an infernal 
shame. Insulted one of their colonels, and was quietly 
shipped off. Thirty years of his life wiped out.” 

“But he never apologized. Said he’d see him damned 
first,” chorused the mess. 

“Poor chap! I suppose he never had the chance after- 
wards. How did he come here?” said the colonel. 

The dingy heap in the chair could give no answer. 

“Do you know who you are?” 

It laughed weakly. 


150 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“Do you know that you are Limmason — Lieutenant 
Limmason of the White Hussars?” 

Swiftly as a shot came the answer, in a slightly surprised 
tone, “Yes, I’m Limmason, of course.” The light died out 
in his eyes, and the man collapsed, watching every motion 
of Dirkovitch with terror. A flight from Siberia may fix a 
few elementary facts in the mind, but it does not seem to 
lead to continuity of thought. The man could not explain 
how, like a homing pigeon, he had found his way to his own 
old mess again. Of what he had suffered or seen he knew 
nothing. He cringed before Dirkovitch as instinctively as 
he had pressed the spring of the candlestick, sought the pic- 
ture of the drum-horse, and answered to the toast of the 
Queen. The rest was a blank that the dreaded Russian 
tongue could only in part remove. His head bowed on his 
breast, and he giggled and cowered alternately. 

The devil that lived in the brandy prompted Dirkovitch 
at this extremely inopportune moment to make a speech. 
He rose, swaying slightly, gripped the table-edge, while his 
eyes glowed like opals, and began: 

“Fellow-soldiers glorious — true friends and hospitables. 
It was an accident, and deplorable — most deplorable.” 
Here he smiled sweetly all round the mess. “But you will 
think of this little, little thing. So little, is it not? The 
Czar! Posh! I slap my fingers — I snap my fingers at him. 
Do I believe in him? No ! But in us Slav who has done noth- 
ing, him I believe. Seventy — how much — millions peoples that 
have done nothing — not one thing. Posh! Napoleon was 
an episode.” He banged a hand on the table. “Hear you, 
old peoples, we have done nothing in the world — out here. 
All our work is to do; and it shall be done, old peoples. Get 
a-way!” He waved his hand imperiously, and pointed to 
the man. “You see him. He is not good to see. He was 
just one little — oh, so little — accident, that no one remem- 
bered. Now he is That ! So will you be, brother-soldiers 
so brave — so will you be. But you will never come back. 
You will all go where he is gone, or” — he pointed to the great 


THE MAN WHO WAS 


151 


coffin-shadow on the ceiling, and muttering, “ Seventy mil- 
lions — get a- way, you old peoples,” fell asleep. 

“Sweet, and to the point,” said little Mildred. “What’s 
the use of getting wroth? Let’s make this poor devil com- 
fortable.” 

But that was a matter suddenly and swiftly taken from 
the loving hands of the White Hussars. The lieutenant had 
returned only to go away again three days later, when the 
wail of the Dead March, and the tramp of the squadrons, told 
the wondering Station, who saw no gap in the mess-table, 
that an officer of the regiment had resigned his new-found 
commission. 

And Dirkovitch, bland, supple, and always genial, went 
away too by a night train. Little Mildred and another 
man saw him off, for he was the guest of the mess, and even 
had he smitten the colonel with the open hand, the law of 
that mess allowed no relaxation of hospitality. 

“Good-bye, Dirkovitch, and a pleasant journey,” said 
little Mildred. 

“ Au revoir ,” said the Russian. 

“Indeed! But we thought you were going home?” 

“Yes, but I will come again. My dear friends, is that road 
shut?” He pointed to where the North Star burned over 
the Khyber Pass. 

“By Jove! I forgot. Of course. Happy to meet you, 
old man, any time you like. Got everything you want? 
Cheroots, ice, bedding? That’s all right. Well, au revoir , 
Dirkovitch.” 

“Um,” said the other man, as the tail-lights of the train 
grew small. “Of — all — the — unmitigated !” 

Little Mildred answered nothing, but watched the North 
Star and hummed a selection from a recent Simla burlesque 
that had much delighted the White Hussars. It ran — 


I’m sorry for Mister Bluebeard, 

I’m sorry to cause him pain; 

But a terrible spree there’s sure to be 
When he comes back again. 


WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY 

( 1890 ) 


Before my Spring I garnered Autumn’s gain. 

Out of her time my field was white with grain. 

The year gave up her secrets to my woe. 

Forced and deflowered each sick season lay. 

In mystery of increase and decay; 

I saw the sunset ere men saw the day. 

Who am too wise in that I should not know. 

Bitter Waters. 


I 


“But if it be a girl?” 

“Lord of my life, it cannot be. I have prayed for so 
many nights, and sent gifts to Sheikh Badl’s shrine so often, 
that I know God will give us a son — a man-child that shall 
grow into a man. Think of this and be glad. My mother 
shall be his mother till I can take him again, and the mullah 
of the Pattan mosque shall cast his nativity — God send he 
be born in an auspicious hour ! — and then, and then thou wilt 
never weary of me, thy slave.” 

“Since when hast thou been a slave, my queen?” 

“Since the beginning — till this mercy came to me. How 
could I be sure of thy love when I knew that I had been 
bought with silver?” 

“Nay, that was the dowry. I paid it to thy mother.” 

“ And she has buried it, and sits upon it all day long like a 
hen. What talk is yours of dower! I was bought as though 
I had been a Lucknow dancing-girl instead of a child.” 

“Art thou sorry for the sale?” 

“I have sorrowed; but to-day I am glad. Thou wilt never 
cease to love me now? — answer, my king.” 

152 


WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY 


153 


“Never — never. No.” 

“Not even though the mem-log — the white women of thy 
own blood — love thee? And remember, I have watched 
them driving in the evening; they are very fair.” 

“I have seen fire-balloons by the hundred. I have seen 
the moon, and — then I saw no more fire-balloons.” 

Ameera clapped her hands and laughed. “Very good 
talk,” she said. Then with an assumption of great state- 
liness, “It is enough. Thou hast my permission to depart, — 
if thou wilt.” 

The man did not move. He was sitting on a low red- 
lacquered couch in a room furnished only with a blue and 
white floor-cloth, some rugs, and a very complete collection 
of native cushions. At his feet sat a woman of sixteen, and 
she was all but all the world in his eyes. By every rule and 
law she should have been otherwise, for he was an English- 
man, and she a Mussulman’s daughter bought two years 
before from her mother, who, being left without money, 
would have sold Ameera shrieking to the Prince of Darkness 
if the price had been sufficient. 

It was a contract entered into with a light heart; but even 
before the girl had reached her bloom she came to fill the 
greater portion of John Holden’s life. For her, and the 
withered hag her mother, he had taken a little house over- 
looking the great red-walled city, and found, — when the 
marigolds had sprung up by the well in the courtyard and 
Ameera had established herself according to her own ideas of 
comfort, and her mother had ceased grumbling at the in- 
adequacy of the cooking-places, the distance from the daily 
market, and at matters of housekeeping in general, — that 
the house was to him his home. Any one could enter his 
bachelor’s bungalow by day or night, and the life that he led 
there was an unlovely one. In the house in the city his feet 
only could pass beyond the outer courtyard to the women’s 
rooms; and when the big wooden gate was bolted behind 
him he was king in his own territory, with Ameera for 
queen. And there was going to be added to this kingdom 


154 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


a third person whose arrival Holden felt inclined to resent. 
It interfered with his perfect happiness. It disarranged 
the orderly peace of the house that was his own. But 
Ameera was wild with delight at the thought of it, and her 
mother not less so. The love of a man, and particularly a 
white man, was at the best an inconstant affair, but it 
might, both women argued, be held fast by a baby’s hands. 
“And then,” Ameera would always say, “then he will never 
care for the white mem-log. I hate them all — I hate them 
all.” 

“He will go back to his own people in time,” said the 
mother; “but by the blessing of God that time is yet afar 
off.” 

Holden sat silent on the couch thinking of the future, and 
his thoughts were not pleasant. The drawbacks of a 
double life are manifold. The Government, with singular 
care, had ordered him out of the station for a fortnight on 
special duty in the place of a man who was watching by the 
bedside of a sick wife. The verbal notification of the 
transfer had been edged by a cheerful remark that Holden 
ought to think himself lucky in being a bachelor and a free 
man. He came to break the news to Ameera. 

“It is not good,” she said slowly, “but it is not all bad. 
There is my mother here, and no harm will come to me — 
unless indeed I die of pure joy. Go thou to thy work and 
think no troublesome thoughts. When the days are done 
I believe . . . nay, I am sure. And — and then I shall lay 

him in thy arms, and thou wilt love me for ever. The train 
goes to-night, at midnight is it not? Go now, and do not 
let thy heart be heavy by cause of me. But thou wilt not 
delay in returning? Thou wilt not stay on the road to talk 
to the bold white mem-log. Come back to me swiftly, my 
life.” 

As he left the courtyard to reach his horse that was teth- 
ered to the gate-post, Holden spoke to the white-haired old 
watchman who guarded the house, and bade him under 
certain contingencies dispatch the filled-up telegraph form 


WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY 


155 


that Holden gave him. It was all that could be done, and 
with the sensations of a man who has attended his own 
funeral Holden went away by the night mail to his exile. 
Every hour of the day he dreaded the arrival of the telegram, 
and every hour of the night he pictured to himself the death 
of Ameera. In consequence his work for the State was not 
of first-rate quality, nor was his temper toward his colleagues 
of the most amiable. The fortnight ended without a sign 
from his home, and, torn to pieces by his anxieties, Holden 
returned to be swallowed up for two precious hours by a 
dinner at the club, wherein he heard, as a man hears in a 
swoon, voices telling him how execrably he had performed 
the other man’s duties, and how he had endeared himself 
to all his associates. Then he fled on horseback through the 
night with his heart in his mouth. There was no answer 
at first to his blows on the gate, and he had just wheeled 
his horse round to kick it in when Pir Khan appeared with a 
lantern and held his stirrup. 

“Has aught occurred?” said Holden. 

“The news does not come from my mouth, Protector 

of the Poor, but ” He held out his shaking hand as 

befitted the bearer of good news who is entitled to a re- 
ward. 

Holden hurried through the courtyard. A light burned 
in the upper room. His horse neighed in the gateway, and 
he heard a shrill little wail that sent all the blood into the 
apple of his throat. It was a new voice, but it did not prove 
that Ameera was alive. 

“Who is there?” he called up the narrow brick staircase. 

There was a cry of delight from Ameera, and then the 
voice of the mother, tremulous with old age and pride — 
“We be two women and — the — man — thy — son.” 

On the threshold of the room Holden stepped on a naked 
dagger, that was laid there to avert ill-luck, and it broke 
at the hilt under his impatient heel. 

“God is great!” cooed Ameera in the half-light. “Thou 
hast taken his misfortunes on thy head.” 


156 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“Ay, but how is it with thee, life of my life? Old woman, 
how is it with her?” 

“She has forgotten her sufferings for joy that the child 
is born. There is no harm; but speak softly,” said the 
mother. 

“It only needed thy presence to make me all well,” said 
Ameera. “My king, thou hast been very long away. 
What gifts hast thou for me? Ah, ah! It is I that bring 
gifts this time. Look, my life, look. Was there ever such 
a babe? Nay, I am too weak even to clear my arm from 
him.” 

“Rest then, and do not talk. I am here, bachari [little 
woman].” 

“ Well said, for there is a bond and a heel-rope [ pee-charee ] 
between us now that nothing can break. Look — canst thou 
see in this light? He is without spot or blemish. Never 
was such a man-child. Ya illah ! he shall be a pundit — 
no, a trooper of the Queen. And, my life, dost thou love 
me as well as ever, though I am faint and sick and worn? 
Answer truly.” 

“Yea. I love as I have loved, with all my soul. Lie still, 
pearl, and rest.” 

“Then do not go. Sit by my side here — so. Mother, 
the lord of this house needs a cushion. Bring it.” There 
was an almost imperceptible movement on the part of the 
new life that lay in the hollow of Ameera’s arm. “Aho!” 
she said, her voice breaking with love. “The babe is a 
champion from his birth. He is kicking me in the side with 
mighty kicks. Was there ever such a babe! And he is ours 
to us — thine and mine. Put thy hand on his head, but care- 
fully, for he is very young, and men are unskilled in such 
matters.” 

Very cautiously Holden touched with the tips of his fingers 
the downy head. 

“He is of the faith,” said Ameera; “for lying here in 
the night-watches I whispered the call to prayer and the 
profession of faith into his ears. And it is most marvel- 


WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY 157 

ous that he was born upon a Friday, as I was born. Be 
careful of him, my life; but he can almost grip with his 
hands.” 

Holden found one helpless little hand that closed feebly 
on his finger. And the clutch ran through his body till it 
settled about his heart. Till then his sole thought had been 
for Ameera. He began to realize that there was someone 
else in the world, but he could not feel that it was a veritable 
son with a soul. He sat down to think, and Ameera dozed 
lightly. 

“Get hence, sahib ,” said her mother under her breath. 
“It is not good that she should find you here on waking. 
She must be still.” 

“I go,” said Holden submissively. “Here be rupees. 
See that my baba gets fat and finds all that he needs.” 

The chink of the silver roused Ameera. “ I am his mother, 
and no hireling,” she said weakly. “Shall I look to him 
more or less for the sake of money? Mother, give it back. 
I have born my lord a son.” 

The deep sleep of weakness came upon her almost before 
the sentence was completed. Holden went down to the 
courtyard very softly with his heart at ease. Pir Khan, the 
old watchman, was chuckling with delight. “This house is 
now complete,” he said, and without further comment thrust 
into Holden’s hands the hilt of a sabre worn many years 
ago when he, Pir Khan, served the Queen in the police. 
The bleat of a tethered goat came from the well-kerb. 

“There be two,” said Pir Khan, “two goats of the best. 
I bought them, and they cost much money; and since there 
is no birth-party assembled their flesh will be all mine. 
Strike craftily, sahib ! ’Tis an ill-balanced saber at the 
best. Wait till they raise their heads from cropping the 
marigolds.” 

“And why?” said Holden, bewildered. 

“For the birth-sacrifice. What else? Otherwise the 
child being unguarded from fate may die. The Protector 
of the Poor knows the fitting words to be said.” 


158 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


Holden had learned them once with little thought that he 
would ever speak them in earnest. The touch of the cold 
saber-hilt in his palm turned suddenly to the clinging grip 
of the child upstairs — the child that was his own son — and a 
dread of loss filled him. 

“Strike ! ” said Pir Khan. “ Never life came into the world 
but life was paid for it. See, the goats have raised their 
heads. Now. With a drawing cut!” 

Hardly knowing what he did Holden cut twice as he 
muttered the Mahomedan prayer that runs: “Almighty! 
In place of this my son I offer life for life, blood for blood, 
head for head, bone for bone, hair for hair, skin for skin.” 
The waiting horse snorted and bounded in his pickets at 
the smell of the raw blood that spirted over Holden’s riding- 
boots. 

“Well smitten!” said Pir Khan, wiping the saber. “A 
swordsman was lost in thee. Go with a light heart, Heaven- 
born. I am thy servant, and the servant of thy son. May 
the Presence live a thousand years and . . . the flesh 

of the goats is all mine?” Pir Khan drew back richer by a 
month’s pay. Holden swung himself into the saddle and 
rode off through the low-hanging wood-smoke of the evening. 
He was full of riotous exultation, alternating with a vast 
vague tenderness directed toward no particular object, that 
made him choke as he bent over the neck of his uneasy horse. 
“I never felt like this in my life,” he thought. “I’ll go to 
the club and pull myself together.” 

A game of pool was beginning, and the room was full of 
men. Holden entered, eager to get to the light and the 
company of his fellows, singing at the top of his voice 

In Baltimore a- walking, a lady I did meet! 

“Did you?” said the club-secretary from his corner. 
“Did she happen to tell you that your boots were wringing 
wet? Great goodness, man, it’s blood!” 

“Bosh!” said Holden, picking his cue from the rack. 


WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY 


159 


“May I cut in? It’s dew. I’ve been riding through high 
crops. My faith ! my boots are in a mess though ! 

“And if it be a girl she shall wear a wedding-ring. 

And if it be a boy he shall fight for his king. 

With his dirk, and his cap, and his little jacket blue. 

He shall walk the quarter-deck ” 

“Yellow on blue — green next player,” said the marker 
monotonously. 

“He shall walk the quarter-deck , — Am I green, marker? 
He shall walk the quarter-deck , — eh! that’s a bad shot, — As 
his daddy used to do /” 

“I don’t see that you have anything to crow about,” said 
a zealous junior civilian acidly. “The Government is not 
exactly pleased with your work when you relieved Sanders.” 

“Does that mean a wigging from headquarters?” said 
Holden with an abstracted smile. “I think I can stand 
it.” 

The talk beat up round the ever-fresh subject of each man’s 
work, and steadied Holden till it was time to go to his dark 
empty bungalow, where his butler received him as one who 
knew all his affairs. Holden remained awake for the greater 
part of the night, and his dreams were pleasant ones. 

H 


“How old is he now?” 

“ Ya illah ! What a man’s question! He is all but six 
weeks old; and on this night I go up to the housetop with 
thee, my life, to count the stars. For that is auspicious. 
And he was born on a Friday under the sign of the Sun, 
and it has been told to me that he will outlive us both and 
get wealth. Can we wish for aught better, beloved? ” 

“There is nothing better. Let us go up to the roof, and 
thou shalt count the stars — but a few only, for the sky is 
heavy with cloud.” 

“The winter rains are late, and maybe they come out of 


160 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


season. Come, before all the stars are hid. I have put on 
my richest jewels.” 

“Thou hast forgotten the best of all.” 

“Ai ! Ours. He comes also. He has never yet seen 
the skies.” 

Ameera climbed the narrow staircase that led to the flat 
roof. The child, placid and unwinking, lay in the hollow 
of her right arm, gorgeous in silver-fringed muslin with a 
small skull-cap on his head. Ameera wore all that she 
valued most. The diamond nose-stud that takes the place 
of the Western patch in drawing attention to the curve of 
the nostril, the gold ornament in the center of the forehead 
studded with tallow-drop emeralds and flawed rubies, the 
heavy circlet of beaten gold that was fastened round her 
neck by the softness of the pure metal, and the chinking 
curb-patterned silver anklets hanging low over the rosy 
ankle-bone. She was dressed in jade-green muslin as be- 
fitted a daughter of the Faith, and from shoulder to elbow 
and elbow to wrist ran bracelets of silver tied with floss silk, 
frail glass bangles slipped over the wrist in proof of the 
slenderness of the hand, and certain heavy gold bracelets 
that had no part in her country’s ornaments but, since 
they were Holden’s gift and fastened with a cunning Euro- 
pean snap, delighted her immensely. 

They sat down by the low white parapet of the roof, over- 
looking the city and its lights. 

“They are happy down there,” said Ameera. “But I 
do not think that they are as happy as we. Nor do I think 
the white mem-log are as happy. And thou?” 

“I know they are not.” 

“How dost thou know?” 

“They give their children over to the nurses.” 

“I have never seen that,” said Ameera with a sigh, “nor 
do I wish to see. Ahi ! — she dropped her head on Holden’s 
shoulder, — “I have counted forty stars, and I am tired. 
Look at the child, love of my life, he is counting too.” 

The baby was staring with round eyes at the dark of the 


WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY 


161 


heavens. Ameera placed him in Holden’s arms, and he lay 
there without a cry. 

“What shall we call him among ourselves?” she said. 
“Look! Art thou ever tired of looking? He carries thy 
very eyes. But the mouth ” 

“Is thine, most dear. Who should know better than I?” 

“’Tis such a feeble mouth. Oh, so small! And yet it 
holds my heart between its lips. Give him to me now. He 
has been too long away.” 

“Nay, let him lie; he has not yet begun to cry.” 

“ When he cries thou wilt give him back — eh ? What a man 
of mankind thou art! If he cried he were only the dearer 
to me. But, my life, what little name shall we give him?” 

The small body lay close to Holden’s heart. It was 
utterly helpless and very soft. He scarcely dared to breathe 
for fear of crushing it. The caged green parrot that is re- 
garded as a sort of guardian-spirit in most native households 
moved on its perch and fluttered a drowsy wing. 

“There is the answer,” said Holden. “Mian Mittu has 
spoken. He shall be the parrot. When he is ready he will 
talk mightily and run about. Mian Mittu is the parrot in 
thy — in the Mussulman tongue, is it not?” 

“Why put me so far off?” said Ameera fretfully. '‘Let 
it be like unto some English name — but not wholly. For 
he is mine.” 

“Then call him Tota, for that is likest English.” 

“Ay, Tota, and that is still the parrot. Forgive me, my 
lord, for a minute ago, but in truth he is too little to wear 
all the weight of Mian Mittu for name. He shall be Tota — 
our Tota to us. Hearest thou, O small one? Littlest, thou 
art Tota.” She touched the child’s cheek, and he waking 
wailed, and it was necessary to return him to his mother, 
who soothed him with the wonderful rhyme of Are koko, 
Jare kokol which says: 

Oh crow! Go crow! Baby’s sleeping sound. 

And the wild plums grow in the jungle* only a penny a pound. 

Only a penny a pound, baba — only a penny a pound. 


162 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


Reassured many times as to the price of those plums, 
Tota cuddled himself down to sleep. The two sleek, white 
well-bullocks in the courtyard were steadily chewing the cud 
of their evening meal; old Pir Khan squatted at the head of 
Holden’s horse, his police saber across his knees, pulling 
drowsily at a big water-pipe that croaked like a bull-frog in 
a pond. Ameera’s mother sat spinning in the lower ver- 
anda, and the wooden gate was shut and barred. The 
music of a marriage-procession came to the roof above the 
gentle hum of the city, and a string of flying-foxes crossed 
the face of the low moon. 

“I have prayed,” said Ameera after a long pause, “I have 
prayed for two things. First, that I may die in thy stead 
if thy death is demanded, and in the second that I may die 
in the place of the child. I have prayed to the Prophet and 
to Beebee Miriam [the Virgin Mary]. Thinkest thou either 
will hear?” 

“From thy lips who would not hear the lightest word?” 

“I asked for straight talk, and thou hast given me sweet 
talk. Will my prayers be heard?” 

“How can I say? God is very good.” 

“Of that I am not sure. Listen now. When I die, or 
the child dies, what is thy fate? Living, thou wilt return 
to the bold white mem-log , for kind calls to kind.” 

“Not always.” 

“With a woman, no; with a man it is otherwise. Thou 
wilt in this life, later on, go back to thine own folk. That 
I could almost endure, for I should be dead. But in thy very 
death thou wilt be taken away to a strange place and a para- 
dise that I do not know.” 

“Will it be paradise?” 

“Surely, for who would harm thee? But we two — I and 
the child — shall be elsewhere, and we cannot come to thee, 
nor canst thou come to us. In the old days, before the 
child was born, I did not think of these things; but now I 
think of them always. It is very hard talk.” 

“It will fall as it will fall. To-morrow we do not know, 


WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY 163 

but to-day and love we know well. Surely we are happy 
now.” 

“So happy that it were well to make our happiness as- 
sured. And thy Beebee Miriam should listen to me; for 
she is also a woman. But then she would envy me! It is 
not seemly for men to worship a woman.” 

Holden laughed aloud at Ameera’s little spasm of jealousy. 

“Is it not seemly? Why didst thou not turn me from 
worship of thee, then?” 

“Thou a worshipper! And of me? My king, for all thy 
sweet words, well I know that I am thy servant and thy 
slave, and the dust under thy feet. And I would not have 
it otherwise. See!” 

Before Holden could prevent her she stooped forward and 
touched his feet; recovering herself with a little laugh she 
hugged Tota closer to her bosom. Then, almost savagely — 

“Is it true that the bold white mem-log live for three 
times the length of my life? Is it true that they make their 
marriages not before they are old women?” 

“They marry as do others — when they are women.” 

“That I know, but they wed when they are twenty-five. 
Is that true?” 

“That is true.” 

“Fa illah ! At twenty-five! Who would of his own will 
take a wife even of eighteen? She is a woman — aging every 
hour. Twenty-five! I shall be an old woman at that 

age, and Those mem-log remain young for ever. How 

I hate them!” 

“What have they to do with us?” 

“I cannot tell. I know only that there may now be alive 
on this earth a woman ten years older than I who may come 
to thee and take thy love ten years after I am an old woman, 
gray-headed, and the nurse of Tota’s son. That is unjust 
and evil. They should die too.” 

“Now, for all thy years thou art a child, and shalt be 
picked up and carried down the staircase.” 

“Tota! Have a care for Tota, my lord! Thou at least 


164 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


art as foolish as any babe!” Ameera tucked Tota out of 
harm’s way in the hollow of her neck, and was carried down- 
stairs laughing in Holden’s arms, while Tota opened his eyes 
and smiled after the manner of the lesser angels. 

He was a silent infant, and, almost before Holden could 
realize that he was in the world, developed into a small gold- 
colored little god and unquestioned despot of the house 
overlooking the city. Those were months of absolute hap- 
piness to Holden and Ameera — happiness withdrawn from 
the world, shut in behind the wooden gate that Pir Khan 
guarded. By day Holden did his work with an immense 
pity for such as were not so fortunate as himself, and a sym- 
pathy for small children that amazed and amused many 
mothers at the little station-gatherings. At nightfall he re- 
turned to Ameera, — Ameera, full of the wondrous doings of 
Tota; how he had been seen to clap his hands together and 
move his fingers with intention and purpose — which was mani- 
festly a miracle — how later, he had of his own initiative 
crawled out of his low bedstead on to the floor and swayed on 
both feet for the space of three breaths. 

“And they were long breaths, for my heart stood still 
with delight,” said Ameera. 

Then Tota took the beasts into his councils — the well- 
bullocks, the little gray squirrels, the mongoose that lived 
in a hole near the well, and especially Mian Mittu, the 
parrot, whose tail he grievously pulled, and Mian Mittu 
screamed till Ameera and Holden arrived. 

“O villain! Child of strength! This to thy brother 
on the housetop! Tobah , tobah! Fie! Fie! But I know a 
charm to make him wise as Suleiman and Aflatoun [Solomon 
and Plato]. Now look,” said Ameera. She drew from an em- 
broidered bag a handful of almonds. “See! we count seven. 
In the name of God ! ” 

She placed Mian Mittu, very angry and rumpled, on the 
top of his cage, and seating herself between the babe and the 
bird she cracked and peeled an almond less white than her 
teeth. “This is a true charm, my life, and do not laugh. 


WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY 


165 


See! I give the parrot one half and Tota the other.” Mian 
Mittu with careful beak took his share from between Ameera’s 
lips, and she kissed the other half into the mouth of the child, 
who ate it slowly with wondering eyes. “This I will do each 
day of seven, and without doubt he who is ours will be a bold 
speaker and wise. Eh, Tota, what wilt thou be when thou 
art a man and I am gray-headed?” Tota tucked his fat legs 
into adorable creases. He could crawl, but he was not going 
to waste the spring of his youth in idle speech. He wanted 
Mian Mittu’s tail to tweak. 

When he was advanced to the dignity of a silver belt — 
which, with a magic square engraved on silver and hung 
round his neck, made up the greater part of his clothing — he 
staggered on a perilous journey down the garden to Pir Khan 
and proffered him all his jewels in exchange for one little ride 
on Holden’s horse, having seen his mother’s mother chaffer- 
ing with pedlars in the veranda. Pir Khan wept and set 
the untried feet on his own gray head in sign of fealty, and 
brought the bold adventurer to his mother’s arms, vowing 
that Tota would be a leader of men ere his beard was grown. 

One hot evening, while he sat on the roof between his 
father and mother watching the never-ending warfare of 
the kites that the city boys flew, he demanded a kite of 
his own with Pir Khan to fly it, because he had a fear of deal- 
ing with anything larger than himself, and when Holden 
called him a “spark,” he rose to his feet and answered 
slowly in defence of his new-found individuality, “Hum’ park 
nahin hai. Hum admi hai [I am no spark, but a man].” 

The protest made Holden choke and devote himself 
very seriously to a consideration of Tota’s future. He need 
hardly have taken the trouble. The delight of that life was 
too perfect to endure. Therefore it was taken away as 
many things are taken away in India — suddenly and without 
warning. The little lord of the house, as Pir Khan called 
him, grew sorrowful and complained of pains who had never 
known the meaning of pain . Ameera, wild with terror, watched 


166 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


him through the night, and in the dawning of the second 
day the life was shaken out of him by fever — the seasonal 
autumn fever. It seemed altogether impossible that he could 
die, and neither Ameera nor Holden at first believed the 
evidence of the little body on the bedstead. Then Ameera 
beat her head against the wall and would have flung herself 
down the well in the garden had Holden not restrained her 
by main force. 

One mercy only was granted to Holden. He rode to his 
office in broad daylight and found waiting him an un- 
usually heavy mail that demanded concentrated attention 
and hard work. He was not, however, alive to this kindness 
of the gods. 


hi 

The first shock of a bullet is no more than a brisk pinch. 
The wrecked body does not send in its protest to the soul 
till ten or fifteen seconds later. Holden realized his pain 
slowly, exactly as he had realized his happiness, and with 
the same imperious necessity for hiding all trace of it. In 
the beginning he only felt that there had been a loss, and 
that Ameera needed comforting, where she sat with her head 
on her knees shivering as Mian Mittu from the house-top 
called, Tota ! Tota ! Tota ! Later all his world and the 
daily life of it rose up to hurt him. It was an outrage that 
any one of the children at the band-stand in the evening 
should be alive and clamorous, when his own child lay dead. 
It was more than mere pain when one of them touched 
him, and stories told by over-fond fathers of their children’s 
latest performances cut him to the quick. He could not 
declare his pain. He had neither help, comfort, nor sym- 
pathy; and Ameera at the end of each weary day would 
lead him through the hell of self -questioning reproach which 
is reserved for those who have lost a child, and believe that 
with a little — just a little — more care it might have been 
saved. 


WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY 


167 


“Perhaps,” Ameera would say, “I did not take sufficient 
heed. Did I, or did I not? The sun on the roof that day 
when he played so long alone and I was — ahi I braiding my 
hair — it may be that the sun then bred the fever. If I 
had warned him from the sun he might have lived. But, 
oh my life, say that I am guiltless! Thou knowest that I 
loved him as I love thee. Say that there is no blame on me, 
or I shall die — I shall die!” 

“There is no blame, — before God, none. It was written 
and how could we do aught to save? What has been, has 
been. Let it go, beloved.” 

“He was all my heart to me. How can I let the thought 
go when my arm tells me every night that he is not here? 
Ahi l Ahi ! O Tota, come back to me — come back again, 
and let us be all together as it was before!” 

“Peace, peace! For thine own sake, and for mine also, 
if thou lovest me — rest.” 

“By this I know thou dost not care; and how shouldst 
thou? The white men have hearts of stone and souls of 
iron. Oh, that I had married a man of mine own people — 
though he beat me — and had never eaten the bread of an 
alien!” 

“Am I an alien — mother of my son?” 

“What else — Sahib ? . . . Oh, forgive me — forgive! 

The death has driven me mad. Thou art the life of my 
heart, and the light of my eyes, and the breath of my life, 
and — and I have put thee from me, though it was but for 
a moment. If thou goest away, to whom shall I look for 
help? Do not be angry. Indeed, it was the pain that 
spoke and not thy slave.” 

“I know, I know. We be two who were three. The 
greater need therefore that we should be one.” 

They were sitting on the roof as of custom. The night 
was a warm one in early spring, and sheet-lightning was 
dancing on the horizon to a broken tune played by far-off 
thunder. Ameera settled herself in Holden’s arms. 

“The dry earth is lowing like a cow for the rain, and I — I 


168 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


am afraid. It was not like this when we counted the stars. 
But thou lovest me as much as before, though a bond is 
taken away? Answer !” 

“I love more because a new bond has come out of the 
sorrow that we have eaten together, and that thou knowest.” 

“Yea, I knew,” said Ameera in a very small whisper. 
“But it is good to hear thee say so, my life, who art so 
strong to help. I will be a child no more, but a woman 
and an aid to thee. Listen! Give me my sitar and I will 
sing bravely.” 

She took the light silver-studded sitar and began a song 
of the great hero Rajah Rasalu. The hand failed on the 
strings, the tune halted, checked, and at a low note turned 
off to the poor little nursery-rhyme about the wicked crow — 

And the wild plums grow in the jungle, only a penny a pound. 

Only a penny a pound, baba — only . . . 

Then came the tears, and the piteous rebellion against 
fate till she slept, moaning a little in her sleep, with the right 
arm thrown clear of the body as though it protected some- 
thing that was not there. It was after this night that life 
became a little easier for Holden. The ever-present pain of 
loss drove him into his work, and the work repaid him by 
filling up his mind for nine or ten hours a day. Ameera sat 
alone in the house and brooded, but grew happier when 
she understood that Holden was more at ease, according to 
the custom of women. They touched happiness again, but 
this time with caution. 

“ It was because we loved Tota that he died. The jealousy 
of God was upon us,” said Ameera. “I have hung up a 
large black jar before our window to turn the evil eye from 
us, and we must make no protestations of delight, but go 
softly underneath the stars, lest God find us out. Is that 
not good talk, worthless one?” 

She had shifted the accent on the word that means “be- 
loved,” in proof of the sincerity of her purpose. But the 
kiss that followed the new christening was a thing that 


WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY 


169 


any deity might have envied. They went about hence- 
forward saying, “It is naught, it is naught”; and hoping 
that all the Powers heard. 

The Powers were busy on other things. They had al- 
lowed thirty million people four years of plenty wherein 
men fed well and the crops were certain, and the birthrate 
rose year by year; the districts reported a purely agricultural 
population varying from nine hundred to two thousand to 
the square mile of the overburdened earth; and the Mem- 
ber for Lower Tooting, wandering about India in pot-hat 
and frock-coat, talked largely of the benefits of British rule 
and suggested as the one thing needful the establishment 
of a duly qualified electoral system and a general bestowal 
of the franchise. His long-suffering hosts smiled and made 
him welcome, and when he paused to admire, with pretty 
picked words, the blossom of the blood-red dhak - tree that 
had flowered untimely for a sign of what was coming, they 
smiled more than ever. 

It was the Deputy Commissioner of Kot-Kumharsen, 
staying at the club for a day, who lightly told a tale that 
made Holden’s blood run cold as he overheard the end. 

“He won’t bother any one any more. Never saw a man 
so astonished in my life. By Jove, I thought he meant to 
ask a question in the House about it. Fellow-passenger 
in his ship — dined next him — bowled over by cholera and 
died in eighteen hours. You needn’t laugh, you fellows. 
The Member for Lower Tooting is awfully angry about it; 
but he’s more scared. I think he’s going to take his en- 
lightened self out of India.” 

“I’d give a good deal if he were knocked over. It might 
keep a few vestrymen of his kidney to their own parish. 
But what’s this about cholera? It’s full early for any- 
thing of that kind,” said the warden of an unprofitable 
salt-lick. 

“Don’t know,” said the Deputy Commissioner reflect- 
ively. “We’ve got locusts with us. There’s sporadic 
cholera all along the north — at least we’re calling it sporadic 


170 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


for decency’s sake. The spring crops are short in five dis- 
tricts, and nobody seems to know where the rains are. 
It’s nearly March now. I don’t want to scare anybody, 
but it seems to me that Nature’s going to audit her ac- 
counts with a big red pencil this summer.” 

“Just when I wanted to take leave, too!” said a voice 
across the room. 

“There won’t be much leave this year, but there ought 
to be a great deal of promotion. I’ve come in to persuade 
the Government to put my pet canal on the list of famine- 
.relief works. It’s an ill-wind that blows no good. I shall 
get that canal finished at last.” 

“Is it the old programme then,” said Holden; “famine, 
fever, and cholera?” 

“Oh no. Only local scarcity and an unusual prevalence 
of seasonal sickness. You’ll find it all in the reports if you 
live till next year. You’re a lucky chap. You haven’t 
got a wife to send out of harm’s way. The hill-stations 
ought to be full of women this year.” 

“I think you’re inclined to exaggerate the talk in the 
bazars ,” said a young civilian in the Secretariat. “Now I 
have observed ” 

“I daresay you have,” said the Deputy Commissioner, 
“but you’ve a great deal more to observe, my son. In 

the meantime, I wish to observe to you ” and he drew 

him aside to discuss the construction of the canal that was 
so dear to his heart. Holden went to his bungalow and 
began to understand that he was not alone in the world, 
and also that he was afraid for the sake of another, — which 
is the most soul-satisfying fear known to man. 

Two months later, as the Deputy had foretold, Nature 
began to audit her accounts with a red pencil. On the heels 
of the spring-reapings came a cry for bread, and the Govern- 
ment, which had decreed that no man should die of want, 
sent wheat. Then came the cholera from all four quarters 
of the compass. It struck a pilgrim-gathering of half a 
million at a sacred shrine. Many died at the feet of their 


WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY 


171 


god; the others broke and ran over the face of the land 
carrying the pestilence with them. It smote a walled city 
and killed two hundred a day. The people crowded the 
trains, hanging on to the footboards and squatting on the 
roofs of the carriages, and the cholera followed them, for at 
each station they dragged out the dead and the dying. 
They died by the roadside, and the horses of the English- 
men shied at the corpses in the grass. The rains did not 
come, and the earth turned to iron lest men should escape 
death by hiding in her. The English sent their wives away 
to the hills and went about their work, coming forward as 
they were bidden to fill the gaps in the fighting-line. Holden, 
sick with fear of losing his chiefest treasure on earth, had done 
his best to persuade Ameera to go away with her mother to 
the Himalayas. 

“Why should I go?” said she one evening on the roof. 

“There is sickness, and people are dying, and all the white 
mem-log have gone.” 

“All of them?” 

“All — unless perhaps there remain some old scaldhead 
who vexes her husband’s heart by running risk of death.” 

“Nay; who stays is my sister, and thou must not abuse 
her, for I will be a scald-head too. I am glad all the bold 
mem-log are gone.” 

“Do I speak to a woman or a babe? Go to the hills 
and I will see to it that thou goest like a queen’s daughter. 
Think, child. In a red-lacquered bullock-cart, veiled and 
curtained, with brass peacocks upon the pole and red cloth 
hangings. I will send two orderlies for guard, and ” 

“Peace! Thou art the babe in speaking thus. What 
use are those toys to me? He would have patted the bul- 
locks and played with the housings. For his sake, perhaps, 
— thou hast made me very English — I might have gone. 
Now, I will not. Let the mem-log run.” 

“Their husbands are sending them, beloved.” 

“Very good talk. Since when hast thou been my hus- 
band to tell me what to do? I have but borne thee a son. 


172 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


Thou art only all the desire of my soul to me. How shall I 
depart when I know that if evil befall thee by the breadth 
of so much as my littlest finger-nail — is that not small? — I 
should be aware of it though I were in paradise. And 
here, this summer thou mayest die — ai, janee , die! and in 
dying they might call to tend thee a white woman, and she 
would rob me in the last of thy love ! ” 

“But love is not born in a moment or on a death-bed !” 

“What dost thou know of love, stoneheart? She would 
take thy thanks at least and, by God and the Prophet and 
Beebee Miriam the mother of thy Prophet, that I will never 
endure. My lord and my love, let there be no more foolish 
talk of going away. Where thou art, I am. It is enough.” 
She put an arm round his neck and a hand on his mouth. 

There are not many happinesses so complete as those that 
are snatched under the shadow of the sword. They sat to- 
gether and laughed, calling each other openly by every pet 
name that could move the wrath of the gods. The city be- 
low them was locked up in its own torments. Sulphur fires 
blazed in the streets; the conches in the Hindu temples 
screamed and bellowed, for the gods were inattentive in 
those days. There was a service in the great Mahomedan 
shrine, and the call to prayer from the minarets was almost 
unceasing. They heard the wailing in the houses of the 
dead, and once the shriek of a mother who had lost a child 
and was calling for its return. In the gray dawn they saw 
the dead borne out through the city gates, each litter with 
its own little knot of mourners. Wherefore they kissed 
each other and shivered. 

It was a red and heavy audit, for the land was very sick 
and needed a little breathing-space ere the torrent of cheap 
life should flood it anew. The children of immature fathers 
and undeveloped mothers made no resistance. They were 
cowed and sat still, waiting till the sword should be sheathed 
in November if it were so willed. There were gaps among 
the English, but the gaps were so filled. The work of super- 
intending famine-relief, cholera-sheds, medicine-distribution 9 


WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY 173 

and what little sanitation was possible, went forward because 
it was so ordered. 

Holden had been told to keep himself in readiness to move 
to replace the next man who should fall. There were twelve 
hours in each day when he could not see Ameera, and she 
might die in three. He was considering what his pain would 
be if he could not see her for three months, or if she died 
out of his sight. He was absolutely certain that her death 
would be demanded — so certain that when he looked up from 
the telegram and saw Pir Khan breathless in the doorway, 
he laughed aloud. “And?” said he, 

“When there is a cry in the night and the spirit flutters 
into the throat, who has a charm that will restore? Come 
swiftly, Heaven-born! It is the black cholera.” 

Holden galloped to his home. The sky was heavy with 
clouds, for the long-deferred rains were near and the heat 
was stifling. Ameera ’s mother met him in the courtyard, 
whimpering, “She is dying. She is nursing herself into 
death. She is all but dead. What shall I do, sahib?” 

Ameera was lying in the room in which Tota had been 
born. She made no sign when Holden entered, because 
the human soul is a very lonely thing and, when it is getting 
ready to go away, hides itself in a misty borderland where 
the living may not follow. The black cholera does its work 
quietly and without explanation. Ameera was being thrust 
out of life as though the Angel of Death had himself put 
his hand upon her. The quick breathing seemed to show 
that she was either afraid or in pain, but neither eyes nor 
mouth gave any answer to Holden’s kisses. There was 
nothing to be said or done. Holden could only wait and 
suffer. The first drops of the rain began to fall on the 
roof, and he could hear shouts of joy in the parched city. 

The soul came back a little and the lips moved. Holden 
bent down to listen. “ Keep nothing of mine,” said Ameera. 
“Take no hair from my head. She would make thee burn it 
later on. That flame I should feel. Lower! Stoop lower! 
Remember only that I was thine and bore thee a son. 


174 STORIES FROM KIPLING 

Though thou wed a white woman to-morrow, the pleasure 
of receiving in thy arms thy first son is taken from thee for 
ever. Remember me when thy son is born — the one that 
shall carry thy name before all men. His misfortunes be 
on my head. I bear witness — I bear witness” — the lips 
were forming the words on his ear — ‘‘that there is no God 
but — thee, beloved!” 

Then she died. Holden sat still, and all thought was taken 
from him, — till he heard Ameera’s mother lift the curtain. 

“Is she dead, sahib?” 

“She is dead.” 

“Then I will mourn, and afterwards take an inventory 
of the furniture in this house. For that will be mine. The 
sahib does not mean to resume it? It is so little, so very little, 
sahib , and I am an old woman. I would like to lie softly.” 

“For the mercy of God be silent awhile. Go out and 
mourn where I cannot hear.” 

“ Sahib , she will be buried in four hours.” 

“I know the custom. I shall go ere she is taken away. 
That matter is in thy hands. Look to it, that the bed on 
which — on which she lies ” 

“Aha! That beautiful red-lacquered bed. I have long 
desired ” 

“That the bed is left here untouched for my disposal. 
All else in the house is thine. Hire a cart, take everything, 
go hence, and before sunrise let there be nothing in this 
house but that which I have ordered thee to respect.” 

“I am an old woman. I would stay at least for the days 
of mourning, and the rains have just broken. Whither shall 
I go?” 

“What is that to me? My order is that there is a going. 
The house-gear is worth a thousand rupees and my orderly 
shall bring thee a hundred rupees to-night.” 

“That is very little. Think of the cart-hire.” 

“It shall be nothing unless thou goest, and with speed* 
0 woman, get hence and leave me with my dead!” 

The mother shuffled down the staircase, and in her anxiety 


WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY 


175 


to take stock of the house-fittings forgot to mourn. Holden 
stayed by Ameera’s side and the rain roared on the roof. 
He could not think connectedly by reason of the noise, 
though he made many attempts to do so. Then four sheeted 
ghosts glided dripping into the room and stared at him 
through their veils. They were the washers of the dead. 
Holden left the room and went out to his horse. He had 
come in a dead, stifling calm through ankle-deep dust. He 
found the courtyard a rain-lashed pond alive with frogs; a 
torrent of yellow water ran under the gate, and a roaring 
wind drove the bolts of the rain like buckshot against the 
mud-walls. Pir Khan was shivering in his little hut by the 
gate, and the horse was stamping uneasily in the water. 

“I have been told the sahib's order,” said Pir Khan. “It 
is well. This house is now desolate. I go also, for my 
monkey-face would be a reminder of that which has been. 
Concerning the bed, I will bring that to thy house yonder 
in the morning; but remember, sahib , it will be to thee a 
knife turning in a green wound. I go upon a pilgrimage, 
and I will take no money. I have grown fat in the protec- 
tion of the Presence whose sorrow is my sorrow. For the last 
time I hold his stirrup.” 

He touched Holden’s foot with both hands and the horse 
sprang out into the road, where the creaking bamboos 
were whipping the sky and all the frogs were chuckling. 
Holden could not see for the rain in his face. He put his 
hands before his eyes and muttered — 

“Oh you brute! You utter brute!” 

The news of his trouble was already in his bungalow. 
He read the knowledge in his butler’s eyes when Ahmed 
Khan brought in food, and for the first and last time in his 
life laid a hand upon his master’s shoulder, saying, “Eat, 
sahib , eat. Meat is good against sorrow. I also have 
known. Moreover the shadows come and go, sahib; the 
shadows come and go. These be curried eggs.” 

Holden could neither eat nor sleep. The heavens sent 
down eight inches of rain in that night and washed the 


176 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


earth clean. The waters tore down walls, broke roads, 
and scoured open the shallow graves on the Mahomedan 
burying-ground. All next day it rained, and Holden sat 
still in his house considering his sorrow. On the morning 
of the third day he received a telegram which said only, 
“Ricketts, Myndonie. Dying. Holden relieve. Immed- 
iate.” Then he thought that before he departed he would 
look at the house wherein he had been master and lord. 
There was a break in the weather, and the rank earth steamed 
with vapor. 

He found that the rains had torn down the mud pillars 
of the gateway, and the heavy wooden gate that had guarded 
his life hung lazily from one hinge. There was grass three 
inches high in the courtyard; Pir Khan’s lodge was empty, 
and the sodden thatch sagged between the beams. A gray 
squirrel was in possession of the veranda, as if the house 
had been untenanted for thirty years instead of three days. 
Ameera’s mother had removed everything except some 
mildewed matting. The tick-tick of the little scorpions as 
they hurried across the floor was the only sound in the 
house. Ameera’s room and the other one where Tota had 
lived were heavy with mildew; and the narrow staircase 
leading to the roof was streaked and stained with rain-borne 
mud. Holden saw all these things, and came out again to 
meet in the road Durga Dass, his landlord, — portly, affable, 
clothed in white muslin, and driving a Cee-spring buggy. 
He was overlooking his property to see how the roofs stood 
the stress of the first rains. 

“I have heard,” said he, “you will not take this place any 
more, sahib ?” 

“What are you going to do with it?” 

“Perhaps I shall let it again.” 

“ Then I will keep it on while I am away.” 

Durga Dass was silent for some time. “You shall not 
take it on, sahib” he said. “When I was a young man I 

also , but to-day I am a member of the Municipality. 

Ho! Ho! No. When the birds have gone what need to 


WITHOUT BENEFIT OF CLERGY 


177 


keep the nest? I will have it pulled down — the timber will 
sell for something always. It shall be pulled down, and the 
Municipality shall make a road across, as they desire, from 
the burning-ghat to the city wall, so that no man may say 
where this house stood.” 


THE INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY 
( 1891 ) 


Wohl auf, my bully cavaliers. 

We ride to church to-day. 

The man that hasn’t got a horse 
Must steal one straight away. 


Be reverent, men, remember 
This is a Gottes haus. 

Du, Conrad, cut along der aisle 
And schenck der whiskey aus. 

Hans Breitmann's Ride to Church. 


Once upon a time, very far from England, there lived 
three men who loved each other so greatly that neither man 
nor woman could come between them. They were in no sense 
refined, nor to be admitted to the outer-door mats of decent 
folk, because they happened to be private soldiers in Her 
Majesty’s Army; and private soldiers of our service have 
small time for self -culture. Their duty is to keep themselves 
and their accouterments specklessly clean, to refrain from 
getting drunk more often than is necessary, to obey their 
superiors, and to pray for a war. All these things my friends 
accomplished; and of their own motion threw in some 
fighting- work for which the Army Regulations did not call. 
Their fate sent them to serve in India, which is not a golden 
country, though poets have sung otherwise. There men 
die with great swiftness, and those who live suffer many 
and curious things. I do not think that my friends con- 
cerned themselves much with the social or political aspects 
of the East. They attended a not unimportant war on the 
northern frontier, another one on our western boundary, 

178 


INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY 179 


and a third in Upper Burma. Then their regiment sat still 
to recruit, and the boundless monotony of cantonment life 
was their portion. They were drilled morning and evening 
on the same dusty parade-ground. They wandered up and 
down the same stretch of dusty white road, attended the same 
church and the same grog-shop, and slept in the same lime- 
washed barn of a barrack for two long years. There was 
Mulvaney, the father in the craft, who had served with 
various regiments from Bermuda to Halifax, old in war, 
scarred, reckless, resourceful, and in his pious hours an un- 
equaled soldier. To him turned for help and comfort six 
and a half feet of slow-moving, heavy-footed Yorkshireman, 
born on the wolds, bred in the dales, and educated chiefly 
among the carriers’ carts at the back of York railway-station. 
His name was Learoyd, and his chief virtue an unmitigated 
patience which helped him to win fights. How Ortheris, a 
fox-terrier of a Cockney, ever came to be one of the trio, is a 
mystery which even to-day I cannot explain. ‘‘There was 
always three av us,” Mulvaney used to say. “An’ by the 
grace av God, so long as our service lasts, three av us they’ll 
always be. ’Tis betther so.” 

They desired no companionship beyond their own, and it 
was evil for any man of the regiment who attempted dispute 
with them. Physical argument was out of the question 
as regarded Mulvaney and the Yorkshireman; and assault 
on Ortheris meant a combined attack from these twain — a 
business which no five men were anxious to have on their 
hands. Therefore they flourished, sharing their drinks, 
their tobacco, and their money; good luck and evil; battle 
and the chances of death; life and the chances of hap- 
piness from Calicut in southern, to Peshawur in northern 
India. 

Through no merit of my own it was my good fortune to 
be in a measure admitted to their friendship — frankly by 
Mulvaney from the beginning, sullenly and with re- 
luctance by Learoyd, and suspiciously by Ortheris, who held 
to it that no man not in the Army could fraternize with a 


180 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


red-coat. “Like to like,” said he. “I’m a bloomin’ sodger 
— he’s a bloomin’ civilian. ’Tain’t natural — that’s all.” 

But that was not all. They thawed progressively, and 
in the thawing told me more of their lives and adventures 
than I am ever likely to write. 

Omitting all else, this tale begins with the Lamentable 
Thirst that was at the beginning of First Causes. Never 
was such a thirst — Mulvaney told me so. They kicked 
against their compulsory virtue, but the attempt was only 
successful in the case of Ortheris. He, whose talents were 
many, went forth into the highways and stole a dog from a 
“civilian” — videlicet , someone, he knew not who, not in the 
Army. Now that civilian was but newly connected by mar- 
riage with the colonel of the regiment, and outcry was made 
from quarters least anticipated by Otheris, and, in the end, 
he was forced, lest a worse thing should happen, to dispose 
at ridiculously unremunerative rates of as promising a small 
terrier as ever graced one end of a leading string. The 
purchase-money was barely sufficient for one small outbreak 
which led him to the guardroom. He escaped, however, with 
nothing worse than a severe reprimand, and a few hours of 
punishment drill. Not for nothing had he acquired the rep- 
utation of being “the best soldier of his inches” in the regi- 
ment. Mulvaney had taught personal cleanliness and effi- 
ciency as the first articles of his companions’ creed. “A dhirty 
man,” he was used to say, in the speech of his kind, “goes to 
Clink for a weakness in the knees, an’ is coort-martialed for a 
pair av socks missin’ ; but a clane man, such as is an ornament 
to his service — a man whose buttons are gold, whose coat 
is wax upon him, an’ whose ’couterments are widout a speck 
— that man may, spakin’ in reason, do fwhat he likes an’ 
dhrink from day to divil. That’s the pride av bein’ dacint.” 

We sat together upon a day, in the shade of a ravine far 
from the barracks, where a watercourse used to run in rainy 
weather. Behind us was the scrub jungle, in which jackals, 
peacocks, the gray wolves of the North-Western Provinces, 
and occasionally a tiger estrayed from Central India, were 


INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY 181 


supposed to dwell. In front lay the cantonment, glaring 
white under a glaring sun; and on either side ran the broad 
road that led to Delhi. 

It was the scrub that suggested to my mind the wisdom 
of Mulvaney taking a day’s leave and going upon a shooting- 
tour. The peacock is a holy bird throughout India, and he 
who slays one is in danger of being mobbed by the nearest 
villagers; but on the last occasion that Mulvaney had gone 
forth, he had contrived, without in the least offending local 
religious susceptibilities, to return with six beautiful peacock 
skins which he sold to profit. It seemed just possible 
then 

“But fwhat manner av use is ut to me goin’ out widout 
a dhrink? The ground’s powdher-dhry under-foot, an’ 
ut gets unto the throat fit to kill,” wailed Mulvaney, looking 
at me reproachfully. “An’ a peacock is not a bird you can 
catch the tail av onless ye run. Can a man run on wather — 
an’ jungle-wather too?” 

Ortheris had considered the question in all its bearings. 
He spoke, chewing his pipe-stem meditatively the while: 

“Go forth, return in glory. 

To Clusium’s royal ’ome: 

An ’round these bloomin’ temples ’ang 
• The bloomin’ shields o’ Rome. 

You better go. You ain’t like to shoot yourself — not while 
there’s a chanst of liquor. Me an’ Learoyd’ll stay at 
’ome an’ keep shop — ’case o’ anythin’ turnin’ up. But you 
go out with a gas-pipe gun an’ ketch the little peacockses or 
somethin’. You kin get one day’s leave easy as winkin’. 
Go along an’ get it, an’ get peacockses or somethin’.” 

“Jock,” said Mulvaney, turning to Learoyd, who was half 
asleep under the shadow of the bank. He roused slowly. 

“Sitha, Mulvaaney, go,” said he. 

And Mulvaney went; cursing his allies with Irish fluency 
and barrack-room point. 

“Take note,” said he, when he had won his holiday, and 


182 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


appeared dressed in his roughest clothes with the only other 
regimental fowling-piece in his hand. “Take note, Jock, 
an’ you Orth’ris, I am goin’ in the face av my own will — all 
for to please you. I misdoubt anythin’ will come av per- 
miscuous huntin’ afther peacockses in a desolit lan’; an’ I 
know that I will lie down an’ die wid thirrrst. Me catch 
peacockses for you, ye lazy scutts — an’ be sacrificed by the 
peasanthry — Ugh ! ” 

He waved a huge paw and went away. 

At twilight, long before the appointed hour, he returned 
empty-handed, much begrimed with dirt. 

“Peacockses?” queried Ortheris from the safe rest of a 
barrack-room table whereon he was smoking cross-legged, 
Learoyd fast asleep on a bench. 

“Jock,” said Mulvaney without answering, as he stirred 
up the sleeper. “Jock, can ye fight? Will ye fight? ” 

Very slowly the meaning of the words communicated itself 
to the half -roused man. He understood — and again — 
what might these things mean? Mulvaney was shaking 
him savagely. Meantime the men in the room howled with 
delight. There was war in the confederacy at last — war 
and the breaking of bonds. 

Barrack-room etiquette is stringent. On the direct 
challenge must follow the direct reply. This is more bind- 
ing than the ties of tried friendship. Once again Mulvaney 
repeated the question. Learoyd answered by the only 
means in his power, and so swiftly that the Irishman had 
barely time to avoid the blow. The laughter around increased. 
Learoyd looked bewilderedly at his friend — himself as 
greatly bewildered. Ortheris dropped from the table be- 
cause his world was falling. 

“Come outside,” said Mulvaney, and as the occupants 
of the barrack-room prepared joyously to follow, he turned 
and said furiously, “There will be no fight this night — onless 
any wan av you is wishful to assist. The man that does, 
follows on.” 

No man moved. The three passed out into the moon- 


INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY 183 


light, Learoyd fumbling with the buttons of his coat. The 
parade-ground was deserted except for the scurrying jackals. 
Mulvaney’s impetuous rush carried his companions far into 
the open ere Learoyd attempted to turn round and continue 
the discussion. 

“Be still now. ’Twas my fault for beginnin* things in 
the middle av an end, Jock. I should ha’ comminst wid 
an explanation; but Jock, dear, on your sowl are ye fit, think 
you, for the finest fight that iver was — betther than fightin’ 
me? Considher before ye answer.” 

More than ever puzzled, Learoyd turned round two or 
three times, felt an arm, kicked tentatively, and answered, 
“Ah’m fit.” He was accustomed to fight blindly at the 
bidding of the superior mind. 

They sat them down, the men looking on from afar, and 
Mulvaney untangled himself in mighty words. 

“Followin’ your fools’ scheme I wint out into the thrack- 
less desert beyond the barricks. An’ there I met a pious 
Hindu dhriving a bullock-kyart. I tuk ut for granted he 
wud be delighted for to convoy me a piece, an’ I jumped 
in ” 

“You long, lazy, black-haired swine,” drawled Ortheris, 
who would have done the same thing under similar cir- 
cumstances. 

“’Twas the height av policy. The naygur-man dhruv 
miles an’ miles — as far as the new railway line they’re 
buildin’ now back av the Tavi river. “ ’Tis a kyart for dhirt 
only,” says he now an’ agin timoreously, to get me out av ut. 
‘Dhirt I am,’ sez I, ‘an’ the dhryest that you iver kyarted. 
Dhrive on, me son, an glory be wid you.’ At that I wint to 
slape, an’ took no heed till he pulled up on the embankmint 
av the line where the coolies were pilin’ mud. There was a 
matther av two thousand coolies on that line — you remimber 
that. Prisintly a bell rang, an’ they throops off to a big pay- 
shed. ‘Where’s the white man in charge?’ sez I to my kyart- 
dhriver. ‘In the shed,’ sez he, ‘engaged on a riffle.’ — 
‘A fwhat?’ sez I. ‘Riffle,’ sez he. ‘You take ticket. He 


184 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


take money. You get nothin.’ — ‘Oho!’ sez I, ‘that’s fwhat 
the shuperior an’ cultivated man calls a raffle, me misbe- 
guided child av darkness an’ sin. Lead on to that raffle, 
though fwhat the mischief ’tis doin’ so far away from uts 
home — which is the charity-bazaar at Christmas, an’ the 
colonel’s wife grinnin’ behind the tea-table — is more than 
I know.’ Wid that I wint to the shed an’ found ’twas pay- 
day among the coolies. Their wages was on a table for- 
ninst a big, fine, red buck av a man — sivun fut high, four 
fut wide, an’ three fut thick, wid a fist on him like a corn- 
sack. He was payin’ the coolies fair an’ easy, but he wud 
ask each man if he wud raffle that month, an’ each man sez, 
‘Yes,’ av course. Thin he wud deduct from their wages ac- 
cordin’. Whin all was paid, he filled an ould cigar-box full 
av gun-wads an* scatthered ut among the coolies. They 
did not take much joy av that performince, an’ small won- 
dher. A man close to me picks up a black gun-wad an’ sings 
out, ‘I have ut.’ — ‘Good may ut do you,’ sez I. The coolie 
wint forward to this big, fine, red man, who threw a cloth 
off av the most sumpshus, jooled, enameled an’ variously 
bediviled sedan-chair I iver saw.” 

“Sedan-chair! Put your ’ead in a bag. That was a 
palanquin. Don’t yer know a palanquin when you see it?” 
said Ortheris with great scorn. 

“I chuse to call ut sedan-chair, an’ chair ut shall be, 
little man,” continued the Irishman. “ ’Twas a most amazin’ 
chair — all lined wid pink silk an’ fitted wid red silk curtains. 
‘Here ut is,’ sez the red man. ‘Here ut is,’ sez the coolie, 
an’ he grinned weakly-ways. ‘Is ut any use to you?’ sez 
the red man. ‘No,’ sez the coolie; ‘I’d like to make a presint 
av ut to you.’ — ‘I am graciously pleased to accept that same,’ 
sez the red man; an’ at that all the coolies cried aloud in 
fwhat was mint for cheerful notes, an’ wint back to their 
diggin’, lavin’ me alone in the shed. The red man saw me, 
an’ his face grew blue on his big, fat neck. ‘Fwhat d’you 
want here?’ sez he. ‘Standin’-room an’ no more,’ sez I, 
‘onless it may be fwhat ye niver had, an’ that’s manners, 


INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY 185 


ye rafflin’ ruffian,’ for I was not goin’ to have the Service 
throd upon. ‘Out of this,’ sez he. ‘I’m in charge av this 
section av construction.’ — ‘I’m in charge av mesilf,’ sez 
I, ‘an’ it’s like I will stay a while. D’ye raffle much in 
these parts?’ — ‘Fwhat’s that to you?’ sez he. ‘Nothin’,’ 
sez I, ‘but a great dale to you, for begad I’m thinkin’ you 
get the full half av your revenue from that sedan-chair. Is 
ut always raffled so?’ I sez, an’ wid that I wint to a coolie 
to ask questions. Bhoys, that man’s name is Dearsley, 
an’ he’s been rafflin’ that ould sedan-chair monthly this 
matther av nine months. Ivry coolie on the section takes 
a ticket — or he gives ’em the go — wanst a month on pay- 
day. Ivry coolie that wins ut gives ut back to him, for ’tis 
too big to carry away, an’ he’d sack the man that thried to 
sell ut. That Dearsley has been makin’ the rowlin’ wealth 
av Roshus by nefarious rafflin.’ Think av the burnin’ 
shame to the sufferin’ coolie-man that the Army in Injia 
are bound to protect an’ nourish in their bosoms! Two 
thousand coolies defrauded wanst a month ! ” 

“Dom t’ coolies. Has’t gotten t’ cheer, man?” said 
Learoyd. 

“Hould on. Havin’ onearthed this amazin’ an’ stupen- 
jus fraud committed by the man Dearsley, I hild a council 
av war; he thryin’ all the time to sejuce me into a fight with 
opprobrious language. That sedan-chair niver belonged 
by right to any foreman av coolies. ’Tis a king’s chair or a 
quane’s. There’s gold on ut an’ silk an’ all manner av trap- 
esemints. Bhoys, ’tis not for me to countenance any sort 

av wrong-doin’ — me bein’ the ould man — but Anyway 

he has had ut nine months, an’ he dare not make throuble 
av ut was taken from him. Five miles away, or ut may be 
six ” 

There was a long pause, and the jackals howled merrily. 
Learoyd bared one arm, and contemplated it in the moon- 
light. Then he nodded partly to himself and partly to his 
friends. Ortheris wriggled with suppressed emotion. 

“I thought ye wud see the reasonableness av ut,” said 


186 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


Mulvaney. “I made bould to say as much to the man be- 
fore. He was for a direct front attack — fut, horse, an’ guns 
— an’ all for nothin’, seem’ that I had no thransport to 
convey the machine away. T will not argue wid you,’ sez 
I, ‘this day, but subsequintly, Mister Dearsley, me rafflin’ 
jool, we talk ut out lengthways. ’Tis no good policy to 
swindle the naygur av his hard-earned emolumints, an’ 
by presint informashin’ — ’twas the kyart man that tould 
me — ‘ye’ve been perpethrating that same for nine months. 
But I’m a just man,’ sez I, ‘an’ overlookin’ the presumpshin 
that yondher settee wid the gilt top was not come by honust’ 
— at that he turned sky-green, so I knew things was more 
thrue than tellable — ‘not come by honust, I’m willin’ to com- 
pound the felony for this month’s winnin’s.’ 

“Ah! Ho!” from Learoyd and Ortheris. 

“That man Dearsley’s rushin’ on his fate,” continued 
Mulvaney, solemnly wagging his head. “All Hell had no 
name bad enough for me that tide. Faith, he called me 
a robber! Me! that was savin’ him from continuin’ in 
his evil ways widout a remonstrince — an’ to a man av con- 
science a remonstrince may change the chune av his life. 
“Tis not for me to argue,’ sez I, ‘fwhatever ye are. Mister 
Dearsley, but, by my hand, I’ll take away the temptation 
for you that lies in that sedan-chair.’ — ‘You will have to 
fight me for ut,’ sez he, ‘for well I know you will never dare 
make report to any one.’ — ‘Fight I will,’ sez I, ‘but not this 
day, for I’m rejuced for want av nourishment.’ — ‘Ye’re an 
ould bould hand, ’sez he, sizin’ me up an’ down; ‘an’ a jool av 
a fight we will have. Eat now an’ dhrink an’ go your way.’ 
Wid that he gave me some hump an’ whisky — good whisky — 
an’ we talked av this an’ that the while. ‘It goes hard on 
me now,’ sez I, wipin’ my mouth, ‘to confiscate that piece av 
furniture, but justice is justice.’ — ‘Ye’ve not got ut yet,’ 
sez he; ‘there’s the fight between.’ — ‘There is,’ sez I, ‘an’ a 
good fight. Ye shall have the pick av the best quality in my 
rigimint for the dinner you have given this day.’ Thin I 
came hot-foot to you two. Hould your tongue, the both. 


INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY 187 

Tis this way. To-morrow we three will go there an’ he shall 
have his pick betune me an’ Jock. Jock’s a deceivin’ fighter, 
for he is all fat to the eye, an’ he moves slow. Now, I’m all 
beef to the look, an’ I move quick. By my reckonin’ the 
Dearsley man won’t take me; so me an’ Orth’ris ’ll see fair 
play. Jock, I tell you, ’twill be big fightin’ — whipped, wid 
the cream above the jam. Afther the business ’twill take a 
good three av us — Jock ’ll be very hurt — to haul away that 
sedan-chair.” 

“Palanquin.” This from Ortheris. 

“Fwhatever ut is, we must have ut. ’Tis the only sellin’ 
piece av property widin reach that we can get so cheap. 
An’ fwhat’s a fight afther all? He has robbed the naygur- 
man, dishonust. We rob him honust for the sake av the 
whisky he gave me.” 

“But wot’ll we do with the bloomin’ article when we’ve 
got it? Them palanquins are as big as ’ouses, an’ uncommon 
’ard to sell, as McCleary said when ye stole the sentry-box 
from the Curragh.” 

“Who’s goin’ to do t’ fightin’?” said Learoyd, and Ortheris 
subsided. The three returned to barracks without a word. 
Mulvaney’s last argument clinched the matter. This 
palanquin was property, vendible, and to be attained in the 
simplest and least embarrassing fashion. It would even- 
tually become beer. Great was Mulvaney. 

Next afternoon a procession of three formed itself and dis- 
appeared into the scrub in the direction of the new railway 
line. Learoyd alone was without care, for Mulvaney dived 
darkly into the future, and little Ortheris feared the unknown. 
What befell at that interview in the lonely pay-shed by the 
side of the half -built embankment, only a few hundred coolies 
know, and their tale is a confusing one, running thus — 

“ W r e were at work. Three men in red coats came. They 
saw the Sahib — Dearsley Sahib. They made oration; and 
noticeably the small man among the red-coats. Dearsley 
Sahib also made oration, and used many very strong words. 
Upon this talk they departed together to an open space, and 


188 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


there the fat man in the red coat fought with Dearsley Sahib 
after the custom of white men — with his hands, making no 
noise, and never at all pulling Dearsley Sahib’s hair. Such 
of us as were not afraid beheld these things for just so long a 
time as a man needs to cook the mid-day meal. The small 
man in the red coat had possessed himself of Dearsley Sahib’s 
watch. No, he did not steal that watch. He held it in his 
hand, and at certain seasons made outcry, and the twain 
ceased their combat, which was like the combat of young 
bulls in spring. Both men w^ere soon all red, but Dearsley 
Sahib was much more red than the other. Seeing this, and 
fearing for his life — because we greatly loved him — some 
fifty of us made shift to rush upon the red-coats. But a 
certain man — very black as to the hair, and in no way to be 
confused with the small man, or the fat man who fought — 
that man, we affirm, ran upon us, and of us he embraced 
some ten or fifty in both arms, and beat our heads together, 
so that our livers turned to water, and we ran away. It is 
not good to interfere in the fightings of white men. After 
that Dearsley Sahib fell and did not rise, these men jumped 
upon his stomach and despoiled him of all his money, and 
attempted to fire the pay-shed, and departed. Is it true 
that Dearsley Sahib makes no complaint of these latter 
things having been done? We were senseless with fear, and 
do not at all remember. There was no palanquin near the 
pay-shed. What do we know about palanquins? Is it true 
that Dearsley Sahib does not return to this place, on account 
of his sickness, for ten days? This is the fault of those bad 
men in the red coats, who should be severely punished; for 
Dearsley Sahib is both our father and mother, and we love 
him much. Yet, if Dearsley Sahib does not return to this 
place at all, we will speak the truth. There was a palan- 
quin, for the up-keep of which we were forced to pay nine- 
tenths of our monthly wage. On such mulctings Dearsley 
Sahib allowed us to make obeisance to him before the palan- 
quin. What could we do? We w r ere poor men. He took 
a full half of our wages. Will the Government repay us 


INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY 189 

those moneys? Those three men in red coats bore the palan- 
quin upon their shoulders and departed. All the money 
that Dearsley Sahib had taken from us was in the cushions 
of that palanquin. Therefore they stole it. Thousands of 
rupees were there — all our money. It was our bank-box, 
to fill which we cheerfully contributed to Dearsley Sahib 
three-sevenths of our monthly wage. Why does the white 
man look upon us with the eye of disfavor? Before God, 
there was a palanquin, and now there is no palanquin; and 
if they send the police here to make inquisition, we can only 
say that there never has been any palanquin. Why should 
a palanquin be near these works? We are poor men, and 
we know nothing.” 

Such is the simplest version of the simplest story connected 
with the descent upon Dearsley. From the lips of the 
coolies I received it. Dearsley himself was in no condition 
to say anything, and Mulvaney preserved a massive silence, 
broken only by the occasional licking of the lips. He had 
seen a fight so gorgeous that even his power of speech was 
taken from him. I respected that reserve until, three days 
after the affair, I discovered in a disused stable in my quart- 
ers a palanquin of unchastened splendor — evidently in past 
days the litter of a queen. The pole whereby it swung be- 
tween the shoulders of the bearers was rich with the painted 
papier-mache of cashmere. The shoulder-pads were of yellow 
silk. The panels of the litter itself were ablaze with the 
loves of all the gods and goddesses of the Hindu Pantheon — 
lacquer on cedar. The cedar sliding doors were fitted with 
hasps of translucent Jaipur enamel and ran in grooves 
shod with silver. The cushions were of brocaded Delhi 
silk, and the curtains which once hid any glimpse of the 
beauty of the king’s palace were stiff with gold. Closer 
investigation showed that the entire fabric was everywhere 
rubbed and discolored by time and wear; but even thus it 
was sufficiently gorgeous to deserve housing on the threshold 
of a royal zenana. I found no fault with it, except that it 
was in my stable. Then, trying to lift it by the silver-shod 


190 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


shoulder-pole, I laughed. The road from Dearsley ’s pay- 
shed to the cantonment was a narrow and uneven one, and, 
traversed by three very inexperienced palanquin-bearers, 
one of whom was sorely battered about the head, must have 
been a path of torment. Still I did not quite recognize the 
right of the three musketeers to turn me into a “fence” for 
stolen property. 

“I’m askin’ you to warehouse ut,” said Mulvaney when 
he was brought to consider the question. “There’s no 
steal in ut. Dearsley tould us we cud have ut if we fought. 
Jock fought — an’, oh, sorr, when the throuble was at uts 
finest an’ Jock was bleedin’ like a stuck pig, an’ little Orth’ris 
was shquealin’ on one leg chewin’ big bits out av Dearsley ’s 
watch, I wud ha’ given my place at the fight to have had you 
see wan round. He tuk Jock, as I suspicioned he would, an’ 
Jock was deceptive. Nine roun’s they were even matched, 

an’ at the tenth About that palanquin now. There’s not 

the least throuble in the world, or we wud not ha’ brought ut 
here. You will ondherstand that the Queen — God bless 
her! — does not reckon for a privit soldier to kape elephints 
an’ palanquins an’ sich in barricks. Afther we had dhragged 
ut down from Dearsley ’s through that cruel scrub that near 
broke Orth’ris’s heart, we set ut in the ravine for a night; 
an’ a thief av a porcupine an’ n civet-cat av a jackal roosted 
in ut, as well we knew in the mornin’. I put ut to you, sorr, 
is an elegint palanquin, fit for the princess, the natural 
abidin’ place av all the vermin in cantonmints? We brought 
ut to you, afther dhark, and put ut in your shtable. Do not 
let your conscience prick. Think av the rejoicin’ men in the 
pay-shed yonder — lookin’ at Dearsley wid his head tied up 
in a towel — an’ well knowin’ that they can dhraw their 
pay ivry month widout stoppages for riffies. Indirectly, 
sorr, you have rescued from an onprincipled son av a night- 
hawk the peasanthry av a numerous village. An’ besides, 
will I let that sedan-chair rot on our hands? Not I. ’Tis 
not every day a piece av pure joolry comes into the market. 
There’s not a king widin these forty miles” — he waved his 


INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY 191 


hand round the dusty horizon — “not a king wud not be glad 
to buy ut. Some day meself, whin I have leisure, I’ll take 
ut up along the road an’ dishpose av ut.” 

“How?” said I, for I knew the man was capable of any- 
thing. 

“Get into ut, av coorse, and keep wan eye open through 
the curtains. Whin I see a likely man av the native per- 
suasion, I will descind blushin’ from my canopy and say, 
‘Buy a palanquin, ye black scutt?’ I will have to hire four 
men to carry me first, though; and that’s impossible till next 
pay-day.” 

Curiously enough, Learoyd, who had fought for the prize, 
and in the winning secured the highest pleasure life had to 
offer him, was altogether disposed to undervalue Jit, while 
Ortheris openly said it would be better to break the thing up. 
Dearsley, he argued, might be a many-sided man, capable, 
despite his magnificent fighting qualities, of setting in motion 
the machinery of the civil law — a thing much abhorred by 
the soldier. Under any circumstances their fun had come 
and passed; the next pay-day was close at hand, when 
there would be beer for all. Wherefore longer conserve 
the painted palanquin? 

“A first-class rifle-shot an’ a good little man av your inches 
you are,” said Mulvaney. “But you niver had a head worth 
a soft-boiled egg. ’Tis me has to lie awake av nights schamin’ 
an’ plottin’ for the three av us. Orth’ris, me son, ’tis no 
matther av a few gallons av beer — no, not twenty gallons — • 
but tubs an’ vats an’ firkins in that sedan-chair. Who ut 
was, an’ what ut was, an’ how ut got there, we do not 
know; but I know in my bones that you an’ me an’ Jock wid 
his sprained thumb will get a fortune thereby. Lave me 
alone, an’ let me think.” 

Meantime the palanquin stayed in my stall, the key of 
which was in Mulvaney ’s hands. 

Pay-day came, and with it beer. It was not in experience 
to hope that Mulvaney, dried by four weeks’ drought, 
would avoid excess. Next morning he and the palanquin 


192 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


had disappeared. He had taken the precaution of getting 
three days’ leave “to see a friend on the railway,” and the 
colonel, well knowing that the seasonal outburst was near, 
and hoping it would spend its force beyond the limits of his 
jurisdiction, cheerfully gave him all he demanded. At this 
point Mulvaney’s history, as recorded in the mess-room, 
stopped. 

Ortheris carried it not much further. “No, ’e wasn’t 
drunk,” said the little man loyally, “the liquor was no more 
than feelin’ its way round inside of ’im; but ’e went an’ 
filled that ’ole bloomin’ palanquin with bottles ’fore ’e went 
off. ’E’s gone an’ ’ired six men to carry ’im, an’ I ’ad to 
’elp ’im into ’is nupshal couch, ’cause ’e wouldn’t ’ear reason. 
’E’s gone off in ’is shirt an’ trousies, swearin’ tremenjus — 
gone down the road in the palanquin, wavin’ ’is legs out o’ 
windy.” 

“Yes,” said I, “but where?” 

“Now you arx me a question. ’E said ’e was goin’ to sell 
that palanquin, but from observations what happened when 
I was stuffin’ ’im through the door, I fancy ’e’s gone to the 
new embankment to mock at Dearsley. ’Soon as Jock’s off 
duty I’m goin’ there to see if ’e’s safe — not Mulvaney, but 
t’other man. My saints, but I pity ’im as ’elps Terence 
out o’ the palanquin when ’e’s once fair drunk!” 

“He’ll come back without harm,” I said. 

“’Corse ’e will. On’y question is, what’ll ’e be doin’ on 
the road? Killing Dearsley, like as not. ’E shouldn’t ’a’ 
gone without Jock or me.” 

Reinforced by Learoyd, Ortheris sought the foreman of 
the coolie-gang. Dearsley ’s head was still embellished with 
towels. Mulvaney, drunk or sober, would have struck no 
man in that condition, and Dearsley indignantly denied 
that he would have taken advantage of the intoxicated 
brave. 

“I had my pick o’ you two,” he explained to Learoyd, 
“and you got my palanquin — not before I’d made my profit 
on it. Why’d I do harm when everything’s settled? Your 


INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY 193 


man did come here — drunk as Davy’s sow on a frosty night — 
came a-purpose to mock me — stuck his head out of the door 
an’ called me a crucified hodman. I made him drunker, 
an’ sent him along. But I never touched him.” 

To these things, Learoyd, slow to perceive the evidences 
of sincerity, answered only, “If owt comes to Mulvaaney 
’long o’ you, I’ll gripple you, clouts or no clouts on your 
ugly head, an’ I’ll draw t’ throat twistyways, man. See 
there now.” 

The embassy removed itself, and Dearsley, the battered, 
laughed alone over his supper that evening. 

Three days passed — a fourth and a fifth. The week drew 
to a close and Mulvaney did not return He, his royal 
palanquin, and his six attendants, had vanished into air. A 
very large and very tipsy soldier, his feet sticking out of the 
litter of a reigning princess, is not a thing to travel 
along the ways without comment. Yet no man of all the 
country round had seen any such wonder. He was, and he 
was not; and Learoyd suggested the immediate smashment 
of Dearsley as a sacrifice to his ghost. Ortheris insisted that 
all was well, and in the light of past experience his hopes 
seemed reasonable. 

“When Mulvaney goes up the road,” said he, “’e’s like to 
go a very long ways up, specially when ’e’s so blue drunk as 
’e is now. But what gits me is ’is not bein’ ’eard of pullin’ 
wool off the niggers somewheres about. That don’t look 
good. The drink must ha’ died out in ’im by this, unless 

’e’s broke a bank, an’ then Why don’t’ e come back? 

’E didn’t ought to ha’ gone off without us.” 

Even Ortheris’s heart sank at the end of the seventh day, 
for half the regiment were out scouring the country-side, 
and Learoyd had been forced to fight two men who hinted 
openly that Mulvaney had deserted. To do him justice, 
the colonel laughed at the notion, even when it was put for- 
ward by his much-trusted adjutant. 

“Mulvaney would as soon think of deserting as you 
would,” said he. “No; he’s either fallen into a mischief 


194 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


among the villagers — and yet that isn’t likely, for he’d 
blarney himself out of the Pit; or else he is engaged on urgent 
private affairs — some stupendous devilment that we shall 
hear of at mess after it has been the round of the barrack- 
rooms. The worst of it is that I shall have to give him 
twenty-eight days’ confinement at least for being absent 
without leave, just when I most want him to lick the new 
batch of recruits into shape. I never knew a man who 
could put a polish on young soldiers as quickly as Mul- 
vaney can. How does he do it? ” 

“With blarney and the buckle-end of a belt, sir,” said the 
adjutant. “He is worth a couple of non-commissioned 
officers when we are dealing with an Irish draft, and the 
London lads seem to adore him. The worst of it is that if 
he goes to the cells the other two are neither to hold nor to 
bind till he comes out again. I believe Ortheris preaches 
mutiny on those occasions, and I know that the mere presence 
of Learoyd mourning for Mulvaney kills all the cheerfulness 
of his room. The sergeants tell me that he allows no man to 
laugh when he feels unhappy. They are a queer gang.” 

“For all that, I wish we had a few more of them. I like 
a well-conducted regiment, but these pasty-faced, shifty- 
eyed, mealy-mouthed young slouchers from the depot 
worry me sometimes with their offensive virtue. They 
don’t seem to have backbone enough to do anything but 
play cards and prowl round the married quarters. I 
believe I’d forgive that old villain on the spot if he turned 
up with any sort of explanation that I could in decency 
accept.” 

“Not likely to be much difficulty about that, sir,” said 
the adjutant. “ Mulvaney ’s explanations are only one 
degree less wonderful than his performances. They say 
that when he was in the Black Tyrone, before he came to us, 
he was discovered on the banks of the Liffey trying to sell 
his colonel’s charger to a Donegal dealer as a perfect lady’s 
hack. Shackbolt commanded the Tyrone then.” 

“Shackbolt must have had apoplexy at the thought of his 


INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY 195 

ramping war-horses answering to that description. He used 
to buy unbacked devils, and tame them on some pet theory of 
starvation. What did Mulvaney say?” 

“That he was a member of the Society for the Prevention 
of Cruelty to Animals, anxious to ‘sell the poor baste where 
he would get something to fill out his dimples/ Shackbolt 
laughed, but I fancy that was why Mulvaney exchanged to 
ours.” 

“I wish he were back,” said the colonel; “for I like him 
and believe he likes me.” 

That evening, to cheer our souls, Learoyd, Ortheris, and I 
went into the waste to smoke out a porcupine. All the dogs 
attended, but even their clamor — and they began to discuss 
the shortcomings of porcupines before they left cantonments 
— could not take us out of ourselves. A large, low moon 
turned the tops of the plume-grass to silver, and the stunted 
camelthorn bushes and sour tamarisks into the likenesses of 
trooping devils. The smell of the sun had not left the earth, 
and little aimless winds blowing across the rose-gardens to 
the southward brought the scent of dried roses and water. 
Our fire once started, and the dogs craftily disposed to wait 
the dash of the porcupine, we climbed to the top of a rain- 
scarred hillock of earth, and looked across the scrub seamed 
with cattle paths, white with the long grass, and dotted with 
spots of level pond-bottom, where the snipe would gather in 
winter. 

“This,” said Ortheris, with a sigh, as he took in the un- 
kempt desolation of it all, “this is sanguinary. This is un- 
usually sanguinary. Sort o’ mad country. Like a grate 
when the fire’s put out by the sun.” He shaded his eyes 
against the moonlight. “An’ there’s a loony dancin’ in 
the middle of it all. Quite right. I’d dance too if I wasn’t 
so downheart.” 

There pranced a Portent in the face of the moon — a huge 
and ragged spirit of the waste, that flapped its wings from 
afar. It had risen out of the earth; it was coming towards 
us, and its outline was never twice the same. The toga, 


196 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


table-cloth, or dressing-gown, whatever the creature wore, 
took a hundred shapes. Once it stopped on a neighboring 
mound and flung all its legs and arms to the winds. 

“My, but that scarecrow ’as got ’em bad!” said Ortheris. 
“Seems like if ’e comes any furder we’ll ’ave to argify with 
’im.” 

Learoyd raised himself from the dirt as a bull clears his 
flanks of the wallow. And as a bull bellows, so he, after 
a short minute at gaze, gave tongue to the stars. 

“Mulvaaney! Mulvaaney! A-hoo!” 

Oh then it was that we yelled and the figure dipped into 
the hollow, till, with a crash of rending grass, the lost one 
strode up to the light of the fire and disappeared to the waist 
in a wave of joyous dogs! Then Learoyd and Ortheris gave 
greeting, bass and falsetto together, both swallowing a lump 
in the throat. 

“You damned fool!” said they, and severally pounded him 
with their fists. 

“Go easy!” he answered; wrapping a huge arm round each. 
“I would have you to know that I am a god, to be treated 
as such — tho’, by my faith, I fancy I’ve got to go to the 
guard-room just like a privit soldier.” 

The latter part of the sentence destroyed the suspicions 
raised by the former. Any one would have been justified 
in regarding Mulvaney as mad. He w r as hatless and shoeless, 
and his shirt and trousers were dropping off him. But he 
wore one wondrous garment — a gigantic cloak that fell from 
collar-bone to heel — of pale pink silk, wrought all over in 
cunningest needlework of hands long since dead, with the 
loves of the Hindu gods. The monstrous figures leaped in 
and out of the light of the fire as he settled the folds round 
him. 

Ortheris handled the stuff respectfully for a moment while 
I was trying to remember where I had seen it before. Then 
he screamed, “What ’ ave you done with the palanquin? 
You’re wearin’ the linin’.” 

“I am,” said the Irishman, “an’ by the same token the 


INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY 197 

’broidery is scrapin’ my hide off. I’ve lived in this sump- 
shus counterpane for four days. Me son, I begin to ondher- 
stand why the naygur is no use. Widout me boots, an’ me 
trousies like an openwork stocking on a gyurl’s leg at a dance, 
I begin to feel like a naygur-man — all fearful an’ timoreous. 
Give me a pipe an’ I’ll tell on.” 

He lit a pipe, resumed his grip of his two friends, and 
rocked to and fro in a gale of laughter. 

“Mulvaney,” said Ortheris sternly, “’tain’t no time for 
laughin’. You’ve given Jock an’ me more trouble than 
you’re worth. You ’ave been absent without leave an’ 
you’ll go into cells for that; an’ you ’ave come back dis- 
gustin’ly dressed an’ most improper in the linin’ o’ that 
bloomin’ palanquin. Instid of which you laugh. An’ we 
thought you was dead all the time.” 

“Bhoys,” said the culprit, still shaking gently, “whin 
I’ve done my tale you may cry if you like an’ little Orth ’r is 
here can thrample my inside out. Ha’ done an’ listen. My 
performinces have been stupenjus: my luck has been the 
blessed luck av the British Army — an’ there’s no betther 
than that. I went out dhrunk an’ dhrinkin’ in the palanquin, 
and I have come back a pink god. Did any of you go to 
Dearsley afther my time was up? He was at the bottom of 
ut all.” 

“Ah said so,” murmured Learoyd. “To-morrow ah ’ll 
smash t’ face in upon his heead.” 

“Ye will not. Dearsley ’s a jool av a man. Afther Ortheris 
had put me into the palanquin an’ the six bearer-men were 
gruntin’ down the road, I tuk thought to mock Dearsley for 
that fight. So I tould thim, ‘Go to the embankmint,’ and 
there, bein’ most amazin’ full, I shtuck my head out av the 
concern an’ passed compliments wid Dearsley. I must ha’ 
miscalled him outrageous, for whin I am that way the power 
av the tongue comes on me. I can bare remimber tellin’ him 
that his mouth opened endways like the mouth av a skate, 
which was thrue afther Learoyd had handled ut; an’ I clear 
remimber his takin’ no manner nor matter av offence, but 


198 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


givin’ me a big dhrink of beer. ’Twas the beer did the 
thrick, for I crawled back into the palanquin, steppin’ on me 
right ear wid me left foot, an’ thin I slept like the dead. 
Wanst I half-roused, an’ begad the noise in my head was 
tremenjus — roarin’ and rattlin’ an’ poundin’ such as was quite 
new to me. ‘Mother av Mercy,’ thinks I, ‘phwat a concer- 
tina I will have on my shoulders whin I wake!’ An’ wid 
that I curls mesilf up to sleep before ut should get hould on 
me. Bhoys, that noise was not dhrink, ’twas the rattle av a 
thrain!” 

There followed an impressive pause. 

“Yes, he had put me on a thrain — put me, palanquin an’ 
all, an’ six black assassins av his own coolies that was in his 
nefarious confidence, on the flat av a ballast-thruck, and we 
were rowlin’ an’ bowlin’ along to Benares. Glory be that I 
did not wake up thin an’ introjuse mesilf to the coolies. As 
I w r as sayin’, I slept forthe betther part av a day an’ a night. 
But remimber you, that that man Dearsley had packed me 
off on wan av his material-thrains to Benares, all for to make 
me overstay my leave an’ get me into the cells.” 

The explanation was an eminently rational one. Benares 
lay at least ten hours by rail from the cantonments, and 
nothing in the world could have saved Mulvaney from arrest 
as a deserter had he appeared there in the apparel of his 
orgies. Dearsley had not forgotten to take revenge. Lea- 
royd, drawing back a little, began to place soft blows over 
selected portions of Mulvaney ’s body. His thoughts were 
away on the embankment, and they meditated evil for 
Dearsley. Mulvaney continued — 

“Whin I was full awake the palanquin was set down in a 
street, I suspicioned, for I cud hear people passin’ an’ talkin’. 
But I knew well I was far from home. There is a queer smell 
upon our cantonments — a smell av dried earth and brick- 
kilns wid whiffs av cavalry stable-litter. This place smelt 
marigold flowers an’ bad water, an’ wanst somethin’ alive 
came an’ blew heavy with his muzzle at the chink av the 
shutter. ‘It’s in a village I am,’ thinks I to mesilf, ‘an’ 


INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY 199 

the parochial buffalo is investigatin' the palanquin.’ But 
anyways I had no desire to move. Only lie still whin you’re 
in foreign parts an’ the standin’ luck av the British Army will 
carry ye through. That is an epigram. I made ut. 

“Thin a lot av whisperin’ divils surrounded the palan- 
quin. ‘Take ut up,’ sez wan man. ‘But who’ll pay us?’ 
sez another. ‘The Maharanee’s minister, av coorse,’ sez 
the man. ‘Oho!’ sez I to mesilf, ‘I’m a quane in me own 
right, wid a minister to pay me expenses. I’ll be an 
emperor if I lie still long enough; but this is no village I’ve 
found.’ I lay quiet, but I gummed me right eye to a crack 
av the shutters, an’ I saw that the whole street was crammed 
wid palanquins an’ horses, an’ a sprinklin’ av naked priests 
all yellow powder an’ tigers’ tails. But I may tell you, 
Orth’ris, an’ you, Learoyd, that av all the palanquins ours was 
the most imperial an’ magnificent. Now a palanquin means 
a native lady all the world over, except whin a soldier av 
the Quane happens to be takin’ a ride. ‘Women an’ 
priests!’ sez I. ‘Your father’s son is in the right pew this 
time, Terence. There will be proceeding.’ Six black divils 
in pink muslin tuk up the palanquin, an’ oh ! but the rowlin’ 
an’ the rockin’ made me sick. Thin we got fair jammed 
among the palanquins — not more than fifty av them — an’ 
we grated an’ bumped like Queenstown potato-smacks in a 
runnin’ tide. I cud hear the women gigglin’ and squirkin’ 
in their palanquins, but mine was the royal equipage. 
They made way for ut, an’, begad, the pink muslin men o’ 
mine were howlin’, ‘Room for the Maharanee av Gokral- 
Seetarun.’ Do you know aught av the lady, sorr?” 

“Yes,” said I. “She is a very estimable old queen of the 
Central Indian States, and they say she is fat. How on 
earth could she go to Benares without all the city knowing 
her palanquin?” 

“ ’Twas the eternal foolishness av the naygur-man. They 
saw the palanquin lying loneful an’ forlornsome, an’ the 
beauty av ut, after Dearsley’s men had dhropped ut and 
gone away,, an’ they gave ut the best name that occurred 


200 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


to thim. Quite right too. For aught we know the ould 
lady was thravellin’ incog — like me. I’m glad to hear she’s 
fat. I was no light weight mysilf, an’ my men were mortial 
anxious to dhrop me under a great big archway promiscuously 
ornamented wid the most improper carvin’s an’ cuttin’s I 
iver saw. Begad! they made me blush — like a — like a 
Maharanee.” 

“The temple of Prithi-Devi,” I murmured, remembering 
the monstrous horrors of that sculptured archway at Benares. 
“Pretty Devilskins, savin’ your presence, sorr! There was 
nothin’ pretty about ut, except me. ’Twas all half dhark, 
an’ whin the coolies left they shut a big black gate behind av 
us, an’ half a company av fat yellow priests began pully- 
haulin’ the palanquins into a dharker place yet — a big stone 
hall full av pillars, an’ gods, an’ incense, an’ all manner av 
similar thruck. The gate disconcerted me, for I perceived 
I wud have to go forward to get out, my retreat bein’ cut off. 
By the same token a good priest makes a bad palanquin- 
coolie. Begad! they nearly turned me inside out draggin’ 
the palanquin to the timple. Now the disposishin av the 
forces inside was this way. The Maharanee av Gokral- 
Seetarun — that was me — lay by the favor av Providence on 
the far left flank behind the dhark av a pillar carved with 
elephints’ heads. The remainder av the palanquins was in a 
big half circle facing in to the biggest, fattest an’ most 
amazin’ she-god that iver I dreamed av. Her head ran up 
into the black above us, an’ her feet stuck out in the light av 
a little fire av melted butter that a priest was feedin’ out av 
a butter-dish. Thin a man began to sing an’ play on some- 
thin’ back in the dhark, an’ ’twas a queer song. Ut 
made my hair lift on the back av my neck. Thin the doors 
av all the palanquins slid back, an’ the women bundled out. 
I saw what I’ll niver see again. ’Twas more glorious than 
thransformations at a pantomime, for they was in pink 
an’ blue an’ silver an’ red an’ grass-green, wid di’monds 
an’ im’ralds an’ great red rubies all over thim. But that 
was the least part av the glory. O bhoys, they were more 


i 


INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY 201 

lovely than the like av any loveliness in hiven; ay, their 
little bare feet were betther than the white hands av a lord’s 
lady, an’ their mouths were like puckered roses, an’ their 
eyes were bigger an’ dharker than the eyes av any livin’ 
woman I’ve seen. Ye may laugh, but I’m speakin’ truth. I 
niver saw the like, an’ niver I will again.” 

“Seeing that in all probability you were watching the 
wives and daughters of most of the kings of India, the chances 
are that you won’t,” I said, for it was dawning on me that 
Mulvaney had stumbled upon a big Queens’ Praying at 
Benares. 

“I niver will,” he said mournfully. “That sight doesn’t 
come twist to any man. It made me ashamed to watch. 
A fat priest knocked at my door. I didn’t think he’d have 
the insolince to disturb the Maharanee av Gokral-Seetarun, 
so I lay still. ‘The old cow’s asleep,’ sez he to another. 
‘Let her be,’ sez that. ‘’Twill be long before she has a calf!’ 
I might ha’ known before he spoke that all a woman prays 
for in Injia — an’ for matter o’ that in England too — is chil- 
dher. That made me more sorry I’d come, me bein’, as you 
well know, a childless man.” 

He was silent for a moment, thinking of his little son, 
dead many years ago. 

“They prayed, an’ the butter-fires blazed up an* the 
incense turned everything blue, an’ between that an’ the 
fires the women looked as tho’ they were all ablaze an’ 
twinklin’. They took hold av the she-god’s knees, they 
cried out an’ they threw themselves about, an’ that world- 
without-end-amen music was dhrivin’ thim mad. Mother 
av Hiven! how they cried, an’ the ould she-god grinnin’ 
above thim all so scornful! The dhrink was dyin’ out 
in me fast, an’ I was thinkin’ harder than the thoughts 
wud go through my head — thinkin’ how to get out, an’ all 
manner of nonsense as well. The women were rockin’ in 
rows, their di’mond belts clickin’, an’ the tears runnin’ out 
betune their hands, an’ the lights were goin’ lower an’ 
dharker. Thin there was a blaze like lightnin’ from the 


202 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


roof, an’ that showed me the inside av the palanquin, an’ 
at the end where my foot was, stood the livin’ spit an’ image 
o’ mysilf worked on the linin’. This man here, ut was.” 

He hunted in the folds of his pink cloak, ran a hand under 
one, and thrust into the firelight a foot-long embroidered 
presentment of the great god Krishna, playing on a flute. 
The heavy jowl, the staring eye, and the blue-black mous- 
tache of the god made up a far-off resemblance to Mulvaney. 

“The blaze was gone in a wink, but the whole schame 
came to me thin. I believe I was mad too. I slid the off- 
shutteropen an’rowled out into the dhark behind the elephint- 
head pillar, tucked up my trousies to my knees, slipped off 
my boots an’ tuk a general hould av all the pink linin’ av 
the palanquin. Glory be, ut ripped out like a woman’s 
dhriss whin you tread on ut at a sergeants’ ball, an’ a bottle 
came with ut. I tuk the bottle an’ the next minute I was 
out av the dhark av the pillar, the pink linin’ wrapped round 
me most graceful, the music thunderin’ like kettledrums, an’ 
a could draft bio win’ round my bare legs. By this hand that 
did ut, I was Krishna tootlin’ on the flute — the god that 
the rig’mental chaplain talks about. A sweet sight I 
must ha’ looked. I knew my eyes were big, and my face 
was wax-white, an’ at the worst I must ha’ looked like a 
ghost. But they took me for the livin’ god. The music 
stopped, and the women were dead dumb an’ I crooked 
my legs like a shepherd on a china basin, an’ I did the 
ghost-waggle with my feet as I had done ut at the rig’- 
mental theater many times, an’ I slid acrost the width av that 
temple in front av the she-god tootlin’ on the beer bottle.” 

“Wot did you toot?” demanded Ortheris the practical. 

“Me? Oh!” Mulvaney sprang up, suiting the action to 
the word, and sliding gravely in front of us, a dilapidated 
but imposing deity in the half light. “I sang — 

'‘Only say 

You’ll be Mrs. Brallaghan. 

Don’t say nay. 

Charmin’ Judy Callaghan. 


INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY 203 

I didn’t know me own voice when I sang. An’ oh! ’twas 
pitiful to see the women. The darlin’s were down on their 
faces. Whin I passed the last wan I cud see her poor little 
fingers workin’ one in another as if she wanted to touch my 
feet. So I dhrew the tail av this pink overcoat over her 
head for the greater honor, an’ I slid into the dhark on the 
other side av the temple, and fetched up in the arms av a 
big fat priest. All I wanted was to get away clear. So I 
tuk him by his greasy throat an’ shut the speech out av 
him. ‘Out!’ sez I. ‘Which way, ye fat heathen?’ — 
‘Oh!’ sez he. ‘Man,’ sez I. ‘White man, soldier man, 
common soldier man. Where in the name av confusion is 
the back door?’ The women in the temple were still on 
their faces, an’ a young priest was holdin’ out his arms 
above their heads. 

“ ‘This way,’ sez my fat friend, duckin’ behind a big bull- 
god an’ divin’ into a passage. Thin I remembered that I 
must ha’ made the miraculous reputation av that temple 
for the next fifty years. ‘Not so fast,’ I sez, an’ I held out 
both my hands wid a wink. That ould thief smiled like a 
father. I tuk him by the back av the neck in case he should 
be wishful to put a knife into me unbeknownst, an’ I ran 
him up an’ down the passage twice to collect his sensibilities ! 
‘Be quiet,’ sez he, in English. ‘Now you talk sense,’ I sez. 
‘Fwhat ’ll you give me for the use av that most iligant pa- 
lanquin I have no time to take away?’ — ‘Don’t tell,’ sez he. 
‘Is ut like?’ sez I. ‘But ye might give me my railway 
fare. I’m far from my home an’ I’ve done you a service.” 
Bhoys, ’tis a good thing to be a priest. The ould man niver 
throubled himself to dhraw from a bank. As I will prove 
to you subsequint, he philandered all round the slack av his 
clothes an’ began dribblin’ ten-rupee notes, old gold mohurs, 
and rupees into my hand till I could hould no more.” 

“You lie!” said Ortheris. “You’re mad or sunstrook. 
A native don’t give coin unless you cut it out o’ ’im. 
’Tain’t nature.” 

“Then my lie an’ my sunstroke is concealed under that 


*04 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


lump av sod yonder,” retorted Mulvaney unruffled, nodding 
across the scrub. “An’ there’s a dale more in nature than 
your squidgy little legs have iver taken you to, Orth ’r is, 
me son. Four hundred an’ thirty-four rupees by my reck- 
onin’, an 9 a big fat gold necklace that I took from him as a. 
remimbrancer, was our share in that business.” 

“An’ ’e give it you for love?” said Ortheris. 

“We were alone in that passage. Maybe I was a trifle 
too pressin’, but considher fwhat I had done for the good av 
the temple and the iverlastin’ joy av those women. ’Twas 
cheap at the price. I wud ha’ taken more if I cud ha’ found 
ut. I turned the ould man upside down at the last, but he 
was milked dhry. Thin he opened a door in another pass- 
age an’ I found mysilf up to my knees in Benares river- 
water, an’ bad smellin’ ut is. More by token I had come 
out on the river-line close to the burnin’ ghat and con- 
tagious to a cracklin’ corpse. This was in the heart av the 
night, for I had been four hours in the temple. There was 
a crowd av boats tied up, so I tuk wan an’ wint across the 
river. Thin I came home acrost country, lyin’ up by day.” 

“How on earth did you manage?” I said. 

“How did Sir Frederick Roberts get from Cabul to Can- 
dahar? He marched an’ he niver tould how near he was to 

breakin’down. That’s why he is fwhat he is. An’ now ” 

Mulvaney yawned portentously. “Now I will go an’ give 
myself up for absince widout leave. It’s eight an’ twenty 
days an’ the rough end of the colonel’s tongue in orderly 
room, any way you look at ut. But ’tis cheap at the price.” 

“Mulvaney,” said I softly. “If there happens to be any 
sort of excuse that the colonel can in any way accept, I have 
a notion that you’ll get nothing more than the dressing- 
down. The new recruits are in, and :” 

“ Not a word more, sorr. Is ut excuses the old man wants? 
’Tis not my way, but he shall have thim. I’ll tell him I was 
engaged in financial operations connected wid a church,” 
and he flapped his way to cantonments and the cells, singing 
lustily — 


INCARNATION OF KRISHNA MULVANEY 205 


“So they sent a corp’rirs file. 

And they put me in the gyard- room 
For conduck unbecomin’ of a soldier.” 

And when he was lost in the midst of the moonlight we could 
hear the refrain — 

Bang upon the big drum, bash upon the cymbals. 

As we go marchin’ along, boys, oh! 

For although in this campaign 
There’s no whisky nor champagne. 

We’ll keep our spirits goin’ with a song, boys ! 


Therewith he surrendered himself to the joyful and al- 
most weeping guard, and was made much of by his fellows. 
But to the colonel he said that he had been smitten with sun- 
stroke and had lain insensible on a villager’s cot for untold 
hours; and between laughter and goodwill the affair was 
smoothed over, so that he could, next day, teach the new 
recruits how to “Fear God, Honor the Queen, Shoot Straight, 
and Keep Clean.” 


“ RIKKI-TIKKI-TA VI ” 


( 1893 ) 

At the hole where he went in 

Red-Eye called to Wrinkle-Skin. 

Hear what little Red-Eye saith: 

“Nag, come up and dance with death!” 

Eye to eye and head to head, 

(Keep the measure. Nag.) 

This shall end when one is dead; 

(At thy pleasure. Nag.) 

Turn for turn and twist for twist — 

(Run and hide thee. Nag.) 

Hah! The hooded Death has missed! 

(Woe betide thee, Nagl) 

This is the story of the great war that Rikki-tikki-tavi 
fought single-handed, through the bath-rooms of the big 
bungalow in Segowlee cantonment. Darzee, the tailor-bird y 
helped him, and Chuchundra, the muskrat, who never comes 
out into the middle of the floor, but always creeps round by 
the wall, gave him advice; but Rikki-tikki did the real 
fighting. 

He was a mongoose, rather like a little cat in his fur and 
his tail, but quite like a weasel in his head and his habits. 
His eyes and the end of his restless nose were pink; he could 
scratch himself anywhere he pleased, with any leg, front or 
back, that he chose to use; he could fluff up his tail till it 
looked like a bottle-brush, and his war-cry as he scuttled 
through the long grass, was: “ Rikk-tikk-tikki-tikki-tchk !” 

One day, a high summer flood washed him out of the 
burrow where he lived with his father and mother, and 
carried him, kicking and clucking, down a roadside ditch. 
He found a little wisp of grass floating there, and clung to it 

206 


“ RIKKI-TIKKI-TAVI ” 


207 


till he lost his senses. When he revived, he was lying in the 
hot sun on the middle of a garden path, very draggled indeed, 
and a small boy was saying: “Here’s a dead mongoose. 
Let’s have a funeral.” 

“No,” said his mother; “let’s take him in and dry him. 
Perhaps he isn’t really dead.” 

They took him into the house, and a big man picked him 
up between his finger and thumb and said he was not dead 
but half choked; so they wrapped him in cotton- wool, and 
warmed him, and he opened his eyes and sneezed. 

“Now,” said the big man (he was an Englishman who had 
just moved into the bungalow); “don’t frighten him, and 
we’ll see what he’ll do.” 

It is the hardest thing in the world to frighten a mongoose, 
because he is eaten up from nose to tail with curiosity. The 
motto of all the mongoose family is, “Run and find out”; 
and Rikki-tikki was a true mongoose. He looked at the 
cotton-wool, decided that it was not good to eat, ran all 
round the table, sat up and put his fur in order, scratched 
himself, and jumped on the small boy’s shoulder. 

“Don’t be frightened, Teddy,” said his father. “That’s 
his way of making friends.” 

“Ouch! He’s tickling under my chin,” said Teddy. 

Rikki-tikki looked down between the boy’s collar and neck, 
snuffed at his ear, and climbed down to the floor, where he 
sat rubbing his nose. 

“Good gracious,” said Teddy’s mother, “and that’s a wild 
creature! I suppose he’s so tame because we’ve been kind 
to him.” 

“All mongooses are like that,” said her husband. “If 
Teddy doesn’t pick him up by the tail, or try to put him in 
a cage, he’ll run in and out of the house all day long. Let’s 
give him something to eat.” 

They gave him a little piece of raw meat. Rikki-tikki 
liked it immensely, and when it was finished he went out 
into the veranda and sat in the sunshine and fluffed up his 
fur to make it dry to the roots. Then he felt better. 


208 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“There are more things to find out about in this house,” 
he said to himself, “than all my family could find out in all 
their lives. I shall certainly stay and find out.” 

He spent all that day roaming over the house. He 
nearly drowned himself in the bath-tubs, put his nose into 
the ink on a writing-table, and burned it on the end of the 
big man’s cigar, for he climbed up in the big man’s lap to 
see how writing was done. At nightfall he ran into Teddy’s 
nursery to watch how kerosene lamps were lighted, and when 
Teddy went to bed Rikki-tikki climbed up too; but he was a 
restless companion, because he had to get up and attend to 
every noise all through the night, and find out what made it. 
Teddy’s mother and father came in, the last thing, to look 
at their boy, and Rikki-tikki was awake on the pillow. “I 
don’t like that,” said Teddy’s mother; “he may bite the 
child.” “ He’ll do no such thing,” said the father. “ Teddy’s 
safer with that little beast than if he had a bloodhound to 
watch him. If a snake came into the nursery now ” 

But Teddy’s mother wouldn’t think of anything so awful. 

Early in the morning Rikki-tikki came to early breakfast 
in the veranda riding on Teddy’s shoulder, and they gave 
him banana and some boiled egg; and he sat on all their 
laps one after the other, because every well-brought-up 
mongoose always hopes to be a house-mongoose some day 
and have rooms to run about in, and Rikki-tikki’s mother 
(she used to live in the General’s house at Segowlee) had 
carefully told Rikki what to do if ever he came across white 
men. 

Then Rikki-tikki went out into the garden to see what 
was to be seen. It was a large garden, only half cultivated, 
with bushes as big as summer-houses of Marshal Niel roses, 
lime and orange trees, clumps of bamboos, and thickets of 
high grass. Rikki-tikki licked his lips. “This is a splendid 
hunting-ground,” he said, and his tail grew bottle-brushy 
at the thought of it, and he scuttled up and down the garden, 
snuffing here and there till he heard very sorrowful voices 
in a thorn-bush. 


“ RIKKI-TIKKI-TAVI ” 


209 


It was Darzee, the tailor-bird, and his wife. They had 
made a beautiful nest by pulling two big leaves together 
and stitching them up the edges with fibers, and had filled 
the hollow with cotton and downy fluff. The nest swayed 
to and fro, as they sat on the rim and cried. 

“What is the matter?” asked Rikki-tikki. 

“We are very miserable,” said Darzee. “One of our 
babies fell out of the nest yesterday and Nag ate him.” 

“H’m!” said Rikki-tikki, “that is very sad — but I am a 
stranger here. Who is Nag?” 

Darzee and his wife only cowered down in the nest without 
answering, for from the thick grass at the foot of the bush 
there came a low hiss — a horrid cold sound that made Rikki- 
tikki jump back two clear feet. Then inch by inch out of 
the grass rose up the head and spread hood of Nag, the big 
black cobra, and he was five feet long from tongue to tail. 
When he had lifted one third of himself clear of the ground, 
he stayed balancing to and fro exactly as a dandelion-tuft 
balances in the wind, and he looked at Rikki-tikki with the 
wicked snake’s eyes that never change their expression, 
whatever the snake may be thinking of. 

“Who is Nag?” he said. “/ am Nag. The great god 
Brahm put his mark upon all our people when the first 
cobra spread his hood to keep the sun off Brahm as he slept. 
Look and be afraid!” 

He spread out his hood more than ever, and Rikki-tikki 
saw the spectacle-mark on the back of it that looks exactly 
like the eye part of a hook-and-eye fastening. He was 
afraid for the minute; but it is impossible for a mongoose to 
stay frightened for any length of time, and though Rikki- 
tikki had never met a live cobra before, his mother had fed 
him on dead ones, and he knew that all a grown mongoose’s 
business in life was to fight and eat snakes. Nag knew that 
too, and at the bottom of his cold heart he was afraid. 

“Well,” said Rikki-tikki, and his tail began to fluff up 
again, “marks or no marks, do you think it is right for you to 
eat fledglings out of a nest?” 


210 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


Nag was thinking to himself, and watching the least little 
movement in the grass behind Rikki-tikki. He knew that 
mongooses in the garden meant death sooner or later for him 
and his family; but he wanted to get Rikki-tikki off his 
guard. So he dropped his head a little, and put it on one 
side. 

“Let us talk,” he said. “You eat eggs. Why should not 
I eat birds?” 

“Behind you! Look behind you!” sang Darzee. 

Rikki-tikki knew better than to waste time in staring. 
He jumped up in the air as high as he could go, and just 
under him whizzed by the head of Nagaina, Nag’s wicked 
wife. She had crept up behind him as he was talking, to 
make an end of him; and he heard her savage hiss as the 
stroke missed. He came down almost across her back, and 
if he had been an old mongoose he would have known that 
then was the time to break her back with one bite; but he 
was afraid of the terrible lashing return-stroke of the cobra. 
He bit, indeed, but did not bite long enough, and he jumped 
clear of the whisking tail, leaving Nagaina torn and angry. 

“Wicked, wicked Darzee!” said Nag, lashing up as high 
as he could reach toward the nest in the thorn-bush; but 
Darzee had built it out of reach of snakes, and it only swayed 
to and fro. 

Rikki-tikki felt his eyes growing red and hot (when a 
mongoose’s eyes grow red, he is angry), and he sat back on his 
tail and hind legs like a little kangaroo, and looked all around 
him, and chattered with rage. But Nag and Nagaina had 
disappeared into the grass. When a snake misses its stroke, 
it never says anything or gives any sign of what it means to 
do next. Rikki-tikki did not care to follow them, for he did 
not feel sure that he could manage two snakes at once. 
So he trotted off to the gravel path near the house, and sat 
down to think. It was a serious matter for him. 

If you read the old books of natural history, you will find 
they say that when the mongoose fights the snake and 
happens to get bitten, he runs off and eats some herb that 


“ RIKKI-TIKKI-TAVI” 


211 


cures him. That is not true. The victory is only a matter 
of quickness of eye and quickness of foot, — snake’s blow 
against mongoose’s jump, — and as no eye can follow the 
motion of a snake’s head when it strikes, that makes things 
much more wonderful than any magic herb. Rikki-tikki 
knew he was a young mongoose, and it made him all the 
more pleased to think that he had managed to escape a blow 
from behind. It gave him confidence in himself, and when 
Teddy came running down the path, Rikki-tikki was ready 
to be petted. 

But just as Teddy was stooping, something flinched a 
little in the dust, and a tiny voice said : “Be careful. Iam 
death!” It was Karait, the dust-brown snakeling that lies 
for choice on the dusty earth; and his bite is as dangerous 
as the cobra’s. But he is so small that nobody thinks of 
him, and so he does the more harm to people. 

Rikki-tikki’s eyes grew red again, and he danced up to 
Karait with the peculiar rocking, swaying motion that he 
had inherited from his family. It looks very funny, but it is 
so perfectly balanced a gait that you can fly off from it at 
any angle you please; and in dealing with snakes this is an 
advantage. If Rikki-tikki had only known, he was doing a 
much more dangerous thing than fighting Nag, for Karait 
is so small, and can turn so quickly, that unless Rikki bit 
him close to the back of the head, he would get the return- 
stroke in his eye or lip. But Rikki did not know; his eyes 
were all red, and he rocked back and forth, looking for a good 
place to hold. Karait struck out. Rikki jumped side- 
ways and tried to run in, but the wicked little dusty gray 
head lashed within a fraction of his shoulder, and he had to 
jump over the body, and the head followed his heels close. 

Teddy shouted to the house: “Oh, look here! Our 
mongoose is killing a snake”; and Rikki-tikki heard a scream 
from Teddy’s mother. His father ran out with a stick, but by 
the time he came up, Karait had lunged out once too far, 
and Rikki-tikki had sprung, jumped on the snake’s back, 
dropped his head far between his fore legs, bitten as high 


212 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


up the back as he could get hold, and rolled away. That 
bite paralyzed Karait, and Rikki-tikki was just going to 
eat him up from the tail, after the custom of his family at 
dinner, when he remembered that a full meal makes a slow 
mongoose, and if he wanted all his strength and quickness 
ready, he must keep himself thin. 

He went away for a dust-bath under the castor-oil bushes, 
while Teddy’s father beat the dead Karait. “What is the 
use of that?” thought Rikki-tikki. “I have settled it all”; 
and then Teddy’s mother picked him up from the dust and 
hugged him, crying that he had saved Teddy from death, 
and Teddy’s father said that he was a providence, and Teddy 
looked on with big scared eyes. Rikki-Tikki was rather 
amused at all the fuss, which, of course, he did not under- 
stand. Teddy’s mother might just as well have petted 
Teddy for playing in the dust. Rikki was thoroughly en- 
joying himself. 

That night, at dinner, walking to and fro among the wine- 
glasses on the table, he could have stuffed himself three times 
over with nice things; but he remembered Nag and Nagaina, 
and though it was very pleasant to be patted and petted by 
Teddy’s mother, and to sit on Teddy’s shoulder, his eyes 
would get red from time to time, and he would go off into 
his long war-cry of “ Rikk-tikk-tikki-tikki-tchk ! ” 

Teddy carried him off to bed, and insisted on Rikki-tikki 
sleeping under his chin. Rikki-tikki was too well bred to 
bite or scratch, but as soon as Teddy was asleep he went 
off for his nightly walk round the house, and in the dark he 
ran up against Chuchundra, the muskrat, creeping round 
by the wall. Chuchundra is a broken-hearted little beast. 
He whimpers and cheeps all the night, trying to make up 
his mind to run into the middle of the room, but he never 
gets there. 

“Don’t kill me,” said Chuchundra, almost weeping. 
“Rikki-tikki, don’t kill me.” 

“Do you think a snake-killer kills muskrats?” said Rikki- 
tikki scornfully. 


“ RIKKI-TIKKI-TAVI ” 


213 


“Those who kill snakes get killed by snakes,” said Chu- 
chundra, more sorrowfully than ever. “And how am I 
to be sure that Nag won’t mistake me for you some dark 
night?” 

“There’s not the least danger,” said Rikki-tikki; “but 
Nag is in the garden, and I know you don’t go there.” 

“My cousin Chua, the rat, told me ” said Chuchundra, 

and then he stopped. 

“Told you what?” 

“H’sh! Nag is everywhere, Rikki-tikki. You should 
have talked to Chua in the garden.” 

“I didn’t — so you must tell me. Quick, Chuchundra, or 
I’ll bite you!” 

Chuchundra sat down and cried till the tears rolled off his 
whiskers. “I am a very poor man,” he sobbed. “I never 
had spirit enough to run out into the middle of the room. 
H’sh! I mustn’t tell you anything. Can’t you hear, Rikki- 
tikki?” 

Rikki-tikki listened. The house was as still as still, but he 
thought he could just catch the faintest scratch-scratch in 
the world — a noise as faint as that of a wasp walking on a 
window-pane, — the dry scratch of a snake’s scales on brick- 
work. 

“That’s Nag or Nagaina,” he said to himself; “and he is 
crawling into the bath-room sluice. You’re right, Chuchun- 
dra; I should have talked to Chua.” 

He stole off to Teddy’s bath-room, but there was nothing 
there, and then to Teddy’s mother’s bath-room. At the 
bottom of the smooth plaster wall there was a brick pulled 
out to make a sluice for the bath-water, and as Rikki-tikki 
stole in by the masonry curb where the bath is put, he heard 
Nag and Nagaina whispering together outside in the moon- 
light. 

“When the house is emptied of people,” said Nagaina to 
her husband, “he will have to go away, and then the garden 
will be our own again. Go in quietly, and remember that the 
big man who killed Karait is the first one to bite. Then 


214 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


come out and tell me, and we will hunt for Rikki-tikki to- 
gether.” 

“But are you sure that there is anything to be gained by 
killing the people?” said Nag. 

“Everything. When there were no people in the bunga- 
low, did we have any mongoose in the garden? So long as 
the bungalow is empty, we are king and queen of the garden; 
and remember that as soon as our eggs in the melon-bed 
hatch (as they may to-morrow), our children will need room 
and quiet.” 

“I had not thought of that,” said Nag. “ I will go, but 
there is no need that we sliould hunt for Rikki-tikki after- 
ward. I will kill the big man and his wife, and the child if I 
can, and come away quietly. Then the bungalow will be 
empty, and Rikki-tikki will go.” 

Rikki-tikki tingled all over with rage and hatred at this, 
and then Nag’s head came through the sluice, and his five 
feet of cold body followed it. Angry as he was, Rikki-tikki 
was very frightened as he saw the size of the big cobra. Nag 
coiled himself up, raised his head, and looked into the bath- 
room in the dark, and Rikki could see his eyes glitter. 

“Now, if I kill him here, Nagaina will know; and if I fight 
him on the open floor, the odds are in his favor. What am 
I to do?” said Rikki-tikki-tavi. 

Nag waved to and fro, and then Rikki-tikki heard him 
drinking from the biggest water-jar that was used to fill the 
bath. “That is good,” said the snake. “Now, when Karait 
was killed, the big man had a stick. He may have that 
stick still, but when he comes in to bathe in the morning 
he will not have a stick. I shall wait here till he comes. 
Nagaina — do you hear me? — I shall wait here in the cool till 
daytime.” 

There was no answer from outside, so Rikki-tikki knew 
Nagaina had gone away. Nag coiled himself down, coil by 
coil, round the bulge at the bottom of the water-jar, and 
Rikki-tikki stayed still as death. After an hour he began 
to move, muscle by muscle, toward the jar. Nag was 


“ RIKKI-TIKKI-TAVI ” 


215 


asleep, and Rikki-tikki looked at his big back, wondering 
which would be the best place for a good hold. “If I don’t 
break his back at the first jump,” said Rikki, “he can still 
fight; and if he fights — O Rikki!” He looked at the thick- 
ness of the neck below the hood, but that was too much for 
him; and a bite near the tail would only make Nag savage. 

“It must be the head,” he said at last; “the head above 
the hood; and, when I am once there, I must not let go.” 

Then he jumped. The head was lying a little clear of the 
water-jar, under the curve of it; and, as his teeth met, Rikki 
braced his back against the bulge of the red earthenware to 
hold down the head. This gave him just one second’s pur- 
chase, and he made the most of it. Then he was battered 
to and fro as a rat is shaken by a dog — to and fro on the floor, 
up and down, and round in great circles; but his eyes were 
red, and he held on as the body cartwhipped over the floor, 
upsetting the tin dipper and the soap-dish and the flesh- 
brush, and banged against the tin side of the bath. As he 
held he closed his jaws tighter and tighter, for he made sure 
he would be banged to death, and, for the honor of his family, 
he preferred to be found with his teeth locked. He was dizzy, 
aching, and felt shaken to pieces when something went off 
like a thunderclap just behind him; a hot wind knocked him 
senseless and red fire singed his fur. The big man had been 
wakened by the noise, and had fired both barrels of a shot- 
gun into Nag just behind the hood. 

Rikki-tikki held on with his eyes shut, for now he was 
quite sure he was dead; but the head did not move, and the 
big man picked him up and said: “It’s the mongoose again, 
Alice; the little chap has saved our lives now.” Then Teddy’s 
mother came in with a very white face, and saw what was 
left of Nag, and Rikki-tikki dragged himself to Teddy’s bed- 
room and spent half the rest of the night shaking himself 
tenderly to find out whether he really was broken into forty 
pieces, as he fancied. 

When morning came he was very stiff, but well pleased 
with his doings. “Now I have Nagaina to settle with, and 


216 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


she will be worse than five Nags, and there’s no knowing 
when the eggs she spoke of will hatch. Goodness! I must 
go and see Darzee,” he said. 

Without waiting for breakfast, Rikki-tikki ran to the thorn- 
bush where Darzee was singing a song of triumph at the top 
of his voice. The news of Nag’s death was all over the gar- 
den, for the sweeper had thrown the body on the rubbish- 
heap. 

“Oh, you stupid tuft of feathers! ” said Rikki-tikki, angrily. 
“Is this the time to sing? ” 

“Nag is dead — is dead — is dead!” sang Darzee. “The 
valiant Rikki-tikki caught him by the head and held fast. 
The big man brought the bang-stick and Nag fell in two 
pieces! He will never eat my babies again.” 

“All that’s true enough; but where’s Nagaina?” said 
Rikki-tikki, looking carefully round him. 

“Nagaina came to the bath-room sluice and called for 
Nag,” Darzee went on; “and Nag came out on the end of a 
stick — the sweeper picked him up on the end of a stick and 
threw him upon the rubbish-heap. Let us sing about the 
great, the red-eyed Rikki-tikki!” and Darzee filled his throat 
and sang. 

“ If I could get up to your nest, I’d roll all your babies out ! ” 
said Rikki-tikki. “You don’t know when to do the right 
thing at the right time. You’re safe enough in your nest 
there, but it’s war for me down here. Stop singing a minute, 
Darzee.” 

“For the great, the beautiful Rikki-tikki’s sake I will stop,” 
said Darzee. “What is it, O Killer of the terrible Nag!” 

“Where is Nagaina, for the third time? ” 

“On the rubbish-heap by the stables, mourning for Nag. 
Great is Rikki-tikki with the white teeth.” 

“Bother my white teeth! Have you ever heard where 
she keeps her eggs?” 

“In the melon-bed, on the end nearest the wall, where 
the sun strikes nearly all day. She had them there weeks 
ago.” 


“ RIKKI-TIKKI-TAVI ” 217 

“And you never thought it worth while to tell me? The 
end nearest the wall, you said?” 

“Rikki-tikki, you are not going to eat her eggs?” 

“Not eat exactly; no. Darzee, if you have a grain of 
sense you will fly off to the stables and pretend that your 
wing is broken, and let Nagaina chase you away to this bush. 
I must get to the melon-bed, and if I went there now she’d 
see me.” 

Darzee was a feather-brained little fellow who could never 
hold more than one idea at a time in his head; and just be- 
cause he knew that Nagaina ’s children were born in eggs 
like his own, he didn’t think at first that it was fair to kill 
them. But his wife was a sensible bird, and she knew that 
cobra’s eggs meant young cobras later on; so she flew off 
from the nest, and left Darzee to keep the babies warm, and 
continue his song about the death of Nag. Darzee was very 
like a man in some ways. 

She fluttered in front of Nagaina by the rubbish-heap, 
and cried out, “Oh, my wing is broken! The boy in the 
house threw a stone at me and broke it.” Then she fluttered 
more desperately than ever. 

Nagaina lifted up her head and hissed, “You warned 
Rikki-tikki when I would have killed him. Indeed and 
truly, you’ve chosen a bad place to be lame in.” And she 
moved toward Darzee’s wife, slipping along over the dust. 

“The boy broke it with a stone!” shrieked Darzee’s wife. 

“Well! It may be some consolation to you when you’re 
dead to know that I shall settle accounts with the boy. 
My husband lies on the rubbish-heap this morning, but be- 
fore night the boy in the house will lie very still. What is 
the use of running away? I am sure to catch you. Little 
fool, look at me!” 

Darzee’s wife knew better than to do that , for a bird who 
looks at a snake’s eyes gets so frightened that she cannot 
move. Darzee’s wife fluttered on, piping sorrowfully, and 
never leaving the ground, and Nagaina quickened her pace. 

Rikki-tikki heard them going up the path from the stables. 


218 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


and he raced for the end of the melon-patch near the wall. 
There, in the warm litter about the melons, very cunningly 
hidden, he found twenty-five eggs, about the size of a ban- 
tam’s eggs, but with whitish skin instead of shell. 

“I was not a day too soon,” he said; for he could see the 
baby cobras curled up inside the skin, and he knew that the 
minute they were hatched they could each kill a man or a 
mongoose. He bit off the tops of the eggs as fast as he could, 
taking care to crush the young cobras, and turned over the 
litter from time to time to see whether he had missed any. 
At last there were only three eggs left, and Rikki-tikki 
began to chuckle to himself, when he heard Darzee’s wife 
screaming: 

“Rikki-tikki, I led Nagaina toward the house, and she 
has gone into the veranda, and — oh, come quickly — she 
means killing!” 

Rikki-tikki smashed two eggs, and tumbled backward 
down the melon-bed with the third egg in his mouth, and 
scuttled to the veranda as hard as he could put foot to the 
ground. Teddy and his mother and father were there at 
early breakfast; but Rikki-tikki saw that they were not eat- 
ing anything. They sat stone-still, and their faces were 
white. Nagaina was coiled up on the matting by Teddy’s 
chair, within easy striking distance of Teddy’s bare leg, 
and she was swaying to and fro singing a song of triumph. 

“Son of the big man that killed Nag,” she hissed, “stay 
still. I am not ready yet. Wait a little. Keep very still, 
all you three. If you move I strike and if you do not move 
I strike. Oh, foolish people, who killed my Nag!” 

Teddy’s eyes were fixed on his father, and all his father 
could do was to whisper, “Sit still, Teddy. You mustn’t 
move. Teddy, keep still.” 

Then Rikki-tikki came up and cried: “Turn round, Nag- 
aina; turn and fight!” 

“All in good time,” said she, without moving her eyes. 
“I will settle my account with you presently. Look at your 
friends, Rikki-tikki. They are still and white; they are 


219 


“ RIKKI-TIKKI-TAVI ” 

afraid. They dare not move, and if you come a step nearer 
I strike.” 

“Look at your eggs,” said Rikki-tikki, “in the melon-bed 
near the wall. Go and look, Nagaina.” 

The big snake turned half round, and saw the egg on the 
veranda. “Ah-h! Give it to me,” she said. 

Rikki-tikki put his paws one on each side of the egg, and 
his eyes were blood-red. “What price for a snake’s egg? 
For a young cobra? For a young king-cobra? For the last 
— the very last of the brood? The ants are eating all the 
others down by the melon-bed.” 

Nagaina spun clear round, forgetting everything for the 
sake of the one egg; and Rikki-tikki saw Teddy’s father 
shoot out a big hand, catch Teddy by the shoulder, and drag 
him across the little table with the tea-cups, safe and out of 
reach of Nagaina. 

“Tricked! Tricked! Tricked! Rikk-tcktck I ” chuckled 
Rikki-tikki. “The boy is safe and it was I — I — I that 
caught Nag by the hood last night in the bath-room.” Then 
he began to jump up and down, all four feet together, his 
head close to the floor. “He threw me to and fro, but he 
could not shake me off. He was dead before the big man 
blew him in two. I did it. Rikki-tikki-tck-tck ! Come 
then, Nagaina. Come and fight with me. You shall not be 
a widow long.” 

Nagaina saw that she had lost her chance of killing Teddy, 
and the egg lay between Rikki-tikki’s paws. “Give me the 
egg, Rikki-tikki. Give me the last of my eggs, and I will 
go away and never come back,” she said, lowering her 
hood. 

“Yes, you will go away, and you will never come back; 
for you will go to the rubbish -heap with Nag. Fight, widow ! 
The big man has gone for his gun ! Fight ! ” 

Rikki-tikki was bounding all round Nagaina, keeping just 
out of reach of her stroke, his little eyes like hot coals. Nag- 
aina gathered herself together, and flung out at him. Rikki- 
tikki jumped up and backward. Again and again and again 


220 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


she struck, and each time her head came with a whack on 
the matting of the veranda and she gathered herself together 
like a watch-spring. Then Rikki-tikki danced in a circle to 
get behind her, and Nagaina spun round to keep her head to 
his head, so that the rustle of her tail on the matting sounded 
like dry leaves blown along by the wind. 

He had forgotten the egg. It still lay on the veranda, 
and Nagaina came nearer and nearer to it, till at last, while 
Rikki-tikki was drawing breath, she caught it in her mouth, 
turned to the veranda steps, and flew like an arrow down 
the path, with Rikki-tikki behind her. When the cobra 
runs for her life, she goes like a whiplash flicked across a 
horse’s neck. 

Rikki-tikki knew that he must catch her, or all the trouble 
would begin again. She headed straight for the long grass 
by the thorn-bush, and as he was running Rikki-tikki heard 
Darzee still singing his foolish little song of triumph. But 
Darzee’s wife was wiser. She flew off her nest as Nagaina 
came along, and flapped her wings about Nagaina’s head. 
If Darzee had helped they might have turned her; but 
Nagaina only lowered her hood and went on. Still, the 
instant’s delay brought Rikki-tikki up to her, and as she 
plunged into the rat-hole where she and Nag used to live 
his little white teeth were clenched on her tail, and he went 
down with her — and very few mongooses, however wise and 
old they may be, care to follow a cobra into its hole. It was 
dark in the hole; and Rikki-tikki never knew when it might 
open out and give Nagaina room to turn and strike at him. 
He held on savagely, and struck out his feet to act as brakes 
on the dark slope of the hot, moist earth. 

Then the grass by the mouth of the hole stopped waving, 
and Darzee said: “It is all over with Rikki-tikki! We must 
sing his death-song. Valiant Rikki-tikki is dead! For Nag- 
aina will surely kill him underground.” 

So he sang a very mournful song that he made up all on 
the spur of the minute, and just as he got to the most touch- 
ing part the grass quivered again, and Rikki-tikki, covered 


“RIKKI-TIKKI-TAVI ” 


221 


with dirt, dragged himself out of the hole leg by leg, licking 
his whiskers. Darzee stopped with a little shout. Rikki- 
tikki shook some of the dust out of his fur and sneezed. “It 
is all over,” he said. “The widow will never come out 
again.” And the red ants that live between the grass stems 
heard him, and began to troop down one after another to 
see if he had spoken the truth. 

Rikki-tikki curled himself up in the grass and slept where 
he was — slept and slept till it was late in the afternoon, for 
he had done a hard day’s work. 

“Now,” he said, when he awoke, “I will go back to the 
house. Tell the Coppersmith, Darzee, and he will tell the 
garden that Nagaina is dead.” 

The Coppersmith is a bird who makes a noise exactly like 
the beating of a little hammer on a copper pot; and the reason 
he is always making it is because he is the town-crier to every 
Indian garden, and tells all the news to everybody who 
cares to listen. As Rikki-tikki went up the path, he heard 
his “attention” notes like a tiny dinner-gong; and then the 
steady “ Ding -dong -took ! Nag is dead — dong! Nagaina is 
dead! Ding-dong-tock /” That set all the birds in the gar- 
den singing, and the frogs croaking; for Nag and Nagaina 
used to eat frogs as well as little birds. 

When Rikki got to the house, Teddy and Teddy’s mother 
(she looked very white still, for she had been fainting) and 
Teddy’s father came out and almost cried over him; and that 
night he ate all that was given him till he could eat no more, 
and went to bed on Teddy’s shoulder, where Teddy’s mother 
saw him when she came to look late at night. 

“He saved our lives and Teddy’s life,” she said to her 
husband. “Just think, he saved all our lives.” 

Rikki-tikki woke up with a jump, for all the mongooses 
are light sleepers. 

“Oh, it’s you,” said he. “What are you bothering for? 
All the cobras are dead; and if they weren’t, I’m here.” 

Rikki-tikki had a right to be proud of himself; but he did 
not grow too proud, and he kept that garden as a mongoose 


222 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


should keep it, with tooth and jump and spring and bite, till 
never a cobra dared show its head inside the walls. 

DARZEE’S CHAUNT 

(sung in honor of rikki-tikki-tavi) 

Singer and tailor am I — 

Doubled the joys that I know — 

Proud of my lilt through the sky. 

Proud of the house that I sew — 

Over and under, so weave I my music — so weave I the house that I sew. 

Sing to your fledglings again, 

Mother, oh lift up your head! 

Evil that plagued us is slain. 

Death in the garden lies dead. 

Terror that hid in the roses is impotent — flung on the dung-hill and dead! 

Who hath delivered us, who? 

Tell me his nest and his name. 

Rikki, the valiant, the true, 

Tikki, with eyeballs of flame. 

Rik-tikki-tikki, the ivory-fanged, the hunter with eyeballs of flame. 

Give him the Thanks of the Birds, 

Bowing with tail-feathers spread! 

Praise him with nightingale words — 

Nay, I will praise him instead. 

Hear! I will sing you the praise of the bottle-tailed Rikki, with eyeballs of 
red! 

(Here Rikki-tilcki interrupted, and the rest of the song is lost,) 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 


( 1895 ) 

Girls and boys, come oub4o play: 

The moon is shining as bright as day! 

Leave your supper and leave your sleep. 

And come with your playfellows out in the street! 

Up the ladder and down the wall — 

A child of three sat up in his crib and screamed at the top 
of his voice, his fists clinched and his eyes full of terror. At 
first no one heard, for his nursery was in the west wing, 
and the nurse was talking to a gardener among the laurels. 
Then the housekeeper passed that way, and hurried to soothe 
him. He was her special pet, and she disapproved of the 
nurse. 

“What was it, then? What was it, then? There’s noth- 
ing to frighten him, Georgie dear.” 

“It was — it was a policeman! He was on the Down — 
I saw him ! He came in. Jane said he would.” 

“Policemen don’t come into houses, dearie. Turn over, 
and take my hand.” 

“I saw him — on the Down. He came here. Where is 
your hand, Harper?” 

The housekeeper waited till the sobs changed to the 
regular breathing of sleep before she stole out. 

“Jane, what nonsense have you been telling Master 
Georgie about policemen?” 

“I haven’t told him anything.” 

“You have. He’s been dreaming about them.” 

“ We met Tisdall on Dowhead when we were in the donkey- 
cart this morning. P’r’aps that’s what put it into his head.” 

“Oh! Now you aren’t going to frighten the child into 
223 


224 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


fits with your silly tales, and the master know nothing about 
it. If ever I catch you again,” etc. 

* * * * * * * 

A child of six was telling himself stories as he lay in bed. 
It was a new power, and he kept it a secret. A month before 
it had occurred to him to carry on a nursery tale left un- 
finished by his mother, and he was delighted to find the tale 
as it came out of his own head just as surprising as though he 
were listening to it “all new from the beginning.” There 
was a prince in that tale and he killed dragons, but only for 
one night. Ever afterwards Georgie dubbed himself prince, 
pasha, giant-killer, and all the rest (you see, he could 
not tell any one, for fear of being laughed at), and his tales 
faded gradually into dreamland, where adventures were 
so many that he could not recall the half of them. They 
all began in the same way, or, as Georgie explained to the 
shadows of the night-light, there was “the same starting-off 
place” — a pile of brushwood stacked somewhere near a 
beach; and round this pile Georgie found himself running 
races with little boys and girls. These ended, ships ran 
high up the dry land and opened into cardboard boxes; or 
gilt-and-green iron railings that surrounded beautiful gar- 
dens turned all soft and could be walked through and over- 
thrown so long as he remembered it was only a dream. He 
could never hold that knowledge more than a few seconds 
ere things became real, and instead of pushing down houses 
full of grown-up people (a just revenge), he sat miserably 
upon gigantic door-steps trying to sing the multiplication- 
table up to four times six. 

The princess of his tales was a person of wonderful beauty 
(she came from the old illustrated edition of Grimm, now 
out of print), and as she always applauded Georgie’s valor 
among the dragons and buffaloes, he gave her the two finest 
names he had ever heard in his life — Annie and Louise, 
pronounced “Annieanlouise.” When the dreams swamped 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 


225 


the stories, she would change into one of the little girls round 
the brushwood-pile, still keeping her title and crown. She 
saw Georgie drown once in a dream-sea by the beach (it was 
the day after he had been taken to bathe in a real sea by his 
nurse); and he said as he sank: “Poor Annieanlouise ! She’ll 
be sorry for me now!” But “Annieanlouise,” walking slowly 
on the beach, called, “‘Ha! ha!’ said the duck, laughing,” 
which to a waking mind might not seem to bear on the situa- 
tion. It consoled Georgie at once, and must have been some 
kind of spell, for it raised the bottom of the deep, and he 
waded out with a twelve-inch flower-pot on each foot. As 
he was strictly forbidden to meddle with flower-pots in real 
life, he felt triumphantly wicked. 

******* 

The movements of the grown-ups, whom Georgie tolerated, 
but did not pretend to understand, removed his world, when 
he was seven years old, to a place called “Oxford-on-a- visit.” 
Here were huge buildings surrounded by vast prairies, with 
streets of infinite length, and, above all, something called 
the “buttery,” which Georgie was dying to see, because he 
knew it must be greasy, and therefore delightful. He per- 
ceived how correct were his judgments when his nurse led 
him through a stone arch into the presence of an enormously 
fat man, who asked him if he would like some bread and 
cheese. Georgie was used to eat all round the clock, so he 
took what “buttery” gave him, and would have taken some 
brown liquid called “auditale” but that his nurse led him 
away to an afternoon performance of a thing called “Pepper’s 
Ghost.” This was intensely thrilling. People’s heads came 
off and flew all over the stage, and skeletons danced bone by 
bone, while Mr. Pepper himself, beyond question a man of 
the worst, waved his arms and flapped a long gown, and in a 
deep bass voice (Georgie had never heard a man sing before) 
told of his sorrows unspeakable. Some grown-up or other 
tried to explain that the illusion was made with mirrors. 


226 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


and that there was no need to be frightened. Georgie did 
not know what illusions were, but he did know that a mirror 
was the looking-glass with the ivory handle on his mother’s 
dressing-table. Therefore the “grown-up” was “just saying 
things” after the distressing custom of “grown-ups,” and 
Georgie cast about for amusement between scenes. Next 
to him sat a little girl dressed all in black, her hair combed 
off her forehead exactly like the girl in the book called “Alice 
in Wonderland,” which had been given him on his last birth- 
day. The little girl looked at Georgie, and Georgie looked at 
her. There seemed to be no need of any further introduction. 

“I’ve got a cut on my thumb,” said he. It was the first 
work of his first real knife, a savage triangular hack, and he 
esteemed it a most valuable possession. 

“I’m tho thorry!” she lisped. “Let me look — pleathe.” 

“There’s a di-ack-lum plaster on, but it’s all raw under,” 
Georgie answered, complying. 

“Dothen’t it hurt?” — her gray eyes were full of pity and 
interest. 

“Awf’ly. Perhaps it will give me lockjaw.” 

“It lookth very horrid. I’m tho thorry!” She put a 
forefinger to his hand, and held her head sidewise for a 
better view. 

Here the nurse turned, and shook him severely. 

“You mustn’t talk to strange little girls, Master Georgie.” 

“She isn’t strange. She’s very nice. I like her, an’ I’ve 
showed her my new cut.” 

“The idea! You change places with me.” 

She moved him over, and shut out the little girl from 
his view, while the grown-up behind renewed the futile ex- 
planations. 

“I am not afraid, truly,” said the boy, wriggling in despair; 
“but why don’t you go to sleep in the afternoons same as 
Provost of Oriel? ” 

Georgie had been introduced to a grown-up of that name, 
who slept in his presence without apology. Georgie under- 
stood that he was the most important grown-up in Oxford; 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 


227 


hence he strove to gild his rebuke with flatteries. This 
grown-up did not seem to like it, but he collapsed, and 
Georgie lay back in his seat, silent and enraptured. Mr. 
Pepper was singing again, and the deep, ringing voice, the 
red fire, and the misty, waving gown all seemed to be mixed 
up with the little girl who had been so kind about his cut. 
When the performance was ended she nodded to Georgie, 
and Georgie nodded in return. He spoke no more than 
was necessary till bedtime, but meditated on new colors and 
sounds and lights and music and things as far as he under- 
stood them; the deep-mouthed agony of Mr. Pepper mingling 
with the little girl’s lisp. That night he made a new tale, 
from which he shamelessly removed the Rapunzel-Rapunzel- 
let-down-your-hair princess, gold crown, Grimm edition, and 
all, and put a new Anniecmlouise in her place. So it was 
perfectly right and natural that when he came to the brush- 
wood-pile he should find her waiting for him, her hair combed 
off her forehead more like Alice in Wonderland than ever, and 
the races and adventures began. 

* ***** * 

Ten years at an English public school do not encourage 
dreaming. Georgie won his growth and chest measure- 
ment, and a few other things which did not appear in the bills 
under a system of cricket, foot-ball, and paper-chases, 
from four to five days a week, which provided for three lawful 
cuts of a ground-ash if any boy absented himself from these 
entertainments. He became a rumple-collared, dusty- 
hatted fag of the Lower Third, and a light half-back at 
Little Side foot-ball; was pushed and prodded through the 
slack back-waters of the Lower Fourth, where the raffle of a 
school generally accumulates; won his “second-fifteen” 
cap at foot-ball, enjoyed the dignity of a study with two 
companions in it, and began to look forward to office as a 
sub-prefect. At last he blossomed into full glory as head 
of the school, ex-officio captain of the games; head of his 


228 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


house, where he and his lieutenants preserved discipline and 
decency among seventy boys from twelve to seventeen; 
general arbiter in the quarrels that spring up among the 
touchy Sixth — and intimate friend and ally of the Head 
himself. When he stepped forth in the black jersey, white 
knickers, and black stockings of the First Fifteen, the new 
match-ball under his arm, and his old and frayed cap at the 
back of his head, the small fry of the lower forms stood apart 
and worshipped, and the “new caps” of the team talked to 
him ostentatiously, that the world might see. And so, in 
summer, when he came back to the pavilion after a slow but 
eminently safe game, it mattered not whether he had made 
nothing or, as once happened, a hundred and three, the 
school shouted just the same, and women-folk who had come 
to look at the match looked at Cottar — Cottar, major ; 
“that’s Cottar!” Above all, he was responsible for that 
thing called the tone of the school, and few realize with what 
passionate devotion a certain type of boy throws himself into 
this work. Home was a far-away country, full of ponies and 
fishing and shooting, and men-visitors who interfered with 
one’s plans; but school was the real world, where things of 
vital importance happened, and crises arose that must be 
dealt with promptly and quietly. Not for nothing was it 
written, “Let the Consuls look to it that the Republic takes 
no harm,” and Georgie was glad to be back in authority when 
the holidays ended. Behind him, but not too near, was the 
wise and temperate Head, now suggesting the wisdom of the 
serpent, now counseling the mildness of the dove; leading 
him on to see, more by half-hints than by any direct word, 
how boys and men are all of a piece, and how he who can 
handle the one will assuredly in time control the other. 

For the rest, the school was not encouraged to dwell on 
its emotions, but rather to keep in hard condition, to avoid 
false quantities, and to enter the army direct, without the 
help of the expensive London crammer, under whose roof 
young blood learns too much. Cottar, major , went the way 
of hundreds before him. The Head gave him six months’ 


229 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 

final polish, taught him what kind of answers best please a 
certain kind of examiners, and handed him over to the prop- 
erly constituted authorities, who passed him into Sandhurst. 
Here he had sense enough to see that he was in the Lower 
Third once more, and behaved with respect toward his sen- 
iors, till they in turn respected him, and he was promoted to 
the rank of corporal, and sat in authority over mixed peoples 
with all the vices of men and boys combined. His reward 
was another string of athletic cups, a good-conduct sword, 
and, at last, Her Majesty’s commission as a subaltern in a 
first-class line regiment. He did not know that he bo.re with 
him from school and college a character worth much fine 
gold, but was pleased to find his mess so kindly. He had 
plenty of money of his own; his training had set the public- 
school mask upon his face, and had taught him how many 
were the “things no fellow can do/’ By virtue of the same 
training he kept his pores open and his mouth shut. 

The regular working of the Empire shifted his world to 
India, where he tasted utter loneliness in subaltern’s quar- 
ters, — one room and one bullock-trunk, — and, with his mess, 
learned the new life from the beginning. But there were 
horses in the land — ponies at reasonable prices; there was 
polo for such as could afford it; there were the disreputable 
remnants of a pack of hounds; and Cottar worried his way 
along without too much despair. It dawned on him that a 
regiment in India was nearer the chance of active service 
than he had conceived, and that a man might as well study 
his profession. A major of the new school backed this idea 
with enthusiasm, and he and Cottar accumulated a library 
of military works, and read and argued and disputed far into 
the nights. But the adjutant said the old thing: “Get to 
know your men, young un, and they’ll follow you anywhere. 
That’s all you want — know your men.” Cottar thought 
he knew them fairly well at cricket and the regimental 
sports, but he never realized the true inwardness of them till 
he was sent off with a detachment of twenty to sit down 
in a mud fort near a rushing river which was spanned by a 


230 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


bridge of boats. When the floods came they went forth and 
hunted strayed pontoons along the banks. Otherwise there 
was nothing to do, and the men got drunk, gambled, and 
quarreled. They were a sickly crew, for a junior subaltern 
is by custom saddled with the worst men. Cottar endured 
their rioting as long as he could, and then sent down-country 
for a dozen pairs of boxing-gloves. 

“I wouldn’t blame you for fightin’,” said he, “if you only 
knew how to use your hands; but you don’t. Take these 
things, and I’ll show you.” The men appreciated his ef- 
forts. Now, instead of blaspheming and swearing at a 
comrade, and threatening to shoot him, they could take 
him apart, and soothe themselves to exhaustion. As one 
explained whom Cottar found with a shut eye and a diamond - 
shaped mouth spitting blood through an embrasure: “We 
tried it with the gloves, sir, for twenty minutes, and that done 
us no good, sir. Then we took off the gloves and tried it 
that way for another twenty minutes, same as you showed 
us, sir, an’ that done us a world o’ good. ’Twasn’t fightin’, 
sir; there was a bet on.” 

Cottar dared not laugh, but he invited his men to other 
sports, such as racing across country in shirt and trousers 
after a trail of torn paper, and to single-stick in the evenings, 
till the native population, who had a lust for sport in every 
form, wished to know whether the white men understood 
wrestling. They sent in an ambassador, who took the 
soldiers by the neck and threw them about the dust; and the 
entire command were all for this new game. They spent 
money on learning new falls and holds, which was better 
than buying other doubtful commodities; and the peasantry 
grinned five deep round the tournaments. 

That detachment, who had gone up in bullock-carts, re- 
turned to headquarters at an average rate of thirty miles a 
day, fair heel-and-toe; no sick, no prisoners, and no court- 
martials pending. They scattered themselves among their 
friends, singing the praises of their lieutenant and looking for 
causes of offense. 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 


231 


“How did you do it;, young un?” the adjutant asked. 

“Oh, I sweated the beef off ’em, and then I sweated some 
muscle on to ’em. It was rather a lark.” 

“If that’s your way of lookin’ at it, we can give you all the 
larks you want. Young Davies isn’t feelin’ quite fit, and 
he’s next for detachment duty. Care to go for him? ” 

“’Sure he wouldn’t mind? I don’t want to shove myself 
forward, you know.” 

“You needn’t bother on Davies’s account. We’ll give 
you the sweepin’s of the corps, and you can see what you can 
make of ’em.” 

“All right,” said Cottar. “It’s better fun than loafin’ 
about cantonments.” 

“Rummy thing,” said the adjutant, after Cottar had 
returned to his wilderness with twenty other devils worse 
than the first. “If Cottar only knew it, half the women in 
the station would give their eyes — confound ’em! — to have 
the young un in tow.” 

“That accounts for Mrs. Elery sayin’ I was workin’ my 
nice new boy too hard,” said a wing commander. 

“Oh, yes; and ‘Why doesn’t he come to the bandstand in 
the evenings?’ and ‘Can’t I get him to make up a four at 
tennis with the Hammon girls?’” the adjutant snorted. 
“Look at young Davies makin’ an ass of himself over mut- 
ton-dressed-as-lamb old enough to be his mother!” 

“No one can accuse young Cottar of runnin’ after women, 
white or black,” the major replied thoughtfully. “But, 
then, that’s the kind that generally goes the worst mucker 
in the end.” 

“Not Cottar. I’ve only run across one of his muster 
before — a fellow called Ingles, in South Africa. He was 
just the same hard-trained, athletic-sports build of animal. 
Always kept himself in the pink of condition. Didn’t do 
him much good, though. ’Shot at Wesselstroom the week 
before Majuba. Wonder how the young un will lick his 
detachment into shape.” 

Cottar turned up six weeks later, on foot, with his pupils. 


232 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


He never told his experiences, but the men spoke enthusiasti- 
cally, and fragments of it leaked back to the colonel through 
sergeants, batmen, and the like. 

There was great jealousy between the first and second de- 
tachments, but the men united in adoring Cottar, and their 
way of showing it was by sparing him all the trouble that men 
know how to make for an unloved officer. He sought popu- 
larity as little as he had sought it at school, and therefore it 
came to him. He favored no one — not even when the 
company sloven pulled the company cricket-match out of 
the fire with an unexpected forty-three at the last moment- 
There was very little getting round him, for he seemed to 
know by instinct exactly when and where to head off a maling- 
erer; but he did not forget that the difference between a 
dazed and sulky junior of the upper school and a bewildered, 
browbeaten lump of a private fresh from the depot was very 
small indeed. The sergeants, seeing these things, told him 
secrets generally hid from young officers. His words were 
quoted as barrack authority on bets in canteen and at tea; 
and the veriest shrew of the corps, bursting with charges 
against other women who had used the cooking-ranges out 
of turn, forbore to speak when Cottar, as the regulations 
ordained, asked of a morning if there were “any complaints.” 

“I’m full o’ complaints,” said Mrs. Corporal Morrison, 
“an’ I’d kill O’Halloran’s fat sow of a wife any day, but ye 
know how it is. ’E puts ’is head just inside the door, an’ 
looks down ’is blessed nose so bashful, an’ ’e whispers, ‘Any 
complaints?’ Ye can’t complain after that. I want to kiss 
him. Some day I think I will. Heigh-ho! she’ll be a 
lucky woman that gets Young Innocence. See ’im now, 
girls. Do ye blame me?” 

Cottar was cantering across to polo, and he looked a very 
satisfactory figure of a man as he gave easily to the first ex- 
cited bucks of his pony, and slipped over a low mud wall to 
the practice-ground. There were more than Mrs. Corporal 
Morrison who felt as she did. But Cottar was busy for 
eleven hours of the day. He did not care to have his tennis 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 


233 


spoiled by petticoats in the court; and after one long after- 
noon at a garden party, he explained to his major that this 
sort of thing was “futile piffle/’ and the major laughed. 
Theirs was not a married mess, except for the colonel’s wife, 
and Cottar stood in awe of the good lady. She said “my 
regiment,” and the world knows what that means. None the 
less, when they wanted her to give away the prizes after a 
shooting-match, and she refused because one of the prize- 
winners was married to a girl who had made a jest of her be- 
hind her broad back, the mess ordered Cottar to “tackle her,” 
in his best calling-kit. This he did, simply and laboriously, 
and she gave way altogether. 

“She only wanted to know the facts of the case,” he ex- 
plained. “I just told her, and she saw at once.” 

“Ye-es,” said the adjutant. “I expect that’s what she 
did. Cornin’ to the Fusiliers’ dance to-night, Galahad? ” 

“No, thanks. I’ve got a fight on with the major.” The 
virtuous apprentice sat up till midnight in the major’s quar- 
ters, with a stop-watch and a pair of compasses, shifting little 
painted lead-blocks about a four-inch map. 

Then he turned in and slept the sleep of innocence, which 
is full of healthy dreams. One peculiarity of his dreams 
he noticed at the beginning of his second hot weather. Two 
or three times a month they duplicated or ran in series. He 
would find himself sliding into dreamland by the same road — 
a road that ran along a beach near a pile of brushwood. To 
the right lay the sea, sometimes at full tide, sometimes with- 
drawn to the very horizon; but he knew it for the same sea. 
By that road he would travel over a swell of rising ground 
covered with short, withered grass, into valleys of wonder and 
unreason. Beyond the ridge, which was crowned with some 
sort of street-lamp, anything was possible; but up to the 
lamp it seemed to him that he knew the road as well as he 
knew the parade-ground. He learned to look forward to 
the place; for, once there, he was sure of a good night’s rest, 
and Indian hot weather can be rather trying. First, shad- 
owy under closing eyelids, would come the outline of the 


234 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


brushwood-pile; next the white sand of the beach-road, 
almost overhanging the black, changeful sea; then the 
turn inland and uphill to the single light. When he was 
unrestful for any reason, he would tell himself how he was 
sure to get there — sure to get there — if he shut his eyes and 
surrendered to the drift of things. But one night after 
a foolishly hard hour’s polo (the thermometer was 94° in his 
quarters at ten o’clock), sleep stood away from him alto- 
gether, though he did his best to find the well-known road, 
the point where true sleep began. At last he saw the brush- 
wood-pile, and hurried along to the ridge, for behind him he 
felt was the wide-awake, sultry world. He reached the lamp 
in safety, tingling with drowsiness, when a policeman — a 
common country policeman — sprang up before him and 
touched him on the shoulder ere he could dive into the dim 
valley below. He was filled with terror — the hopeless terror 
of dreams, — for the policeman said, in the awful, distinct 
voice of dream-people, “I am Policeman Day coming back 
from the City of Sleep. You come with me.” Georgieknew 
it was true — that just beyond him in the valley lay the lights 
of the City of Sleep, where he would have been sheltered, 
and that this Policeman-Thing had full power and authority 
to head him back to miserable wakefulness. He found him- 
self looking at the moonlight on the wall, dripping with 
fright; and he never overcame that horror, though he met 
the Policeman several times that hot weather, and his coming 
was the forerunner of a bad night. 

But other dreams — perfectly absurd ones — filled him with 
an incommunicable delight. All those that he remembered 
began by the brushwood-pile. For instance, he found a 
small clockwork steamer (he had noticed it many nights 
before) lying by the sea-road, and stepped into it, whereupon 
it moved with surpassing swiftness over an absolutely level 
sea. This was glorious, for he felt he was exploring great 
matters; and it stopped by a lily carved in stone, which, most 
naturally, floated on the water. Seeing the lily was labeled 
“Hong-Kong,” Georgie said: “Of course. This is precisely 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 


235 


what I expected Hong-Kong would be like. How magnifi- 
cent!” Thousands of miles farther on it halted at yet an- 
other stone lily, labeled “Java”; and this, again, delighted 
him hugely, because he knew that now he was at the world’s 
end. But the little boat ran on and on till it lay in a deep 
fresh-water lock, the sides of which were carven marble, green 
with moss. Lily-pads lay on the water, and reeds arched 
above. Someone moved among the reeds — someone whom 
Georgie knew he had traveled to this world’s end to 
reach. Therefore everything was entirely well with him. 
He was unspeakably happy, and vaulted over the ship’s side 
to find this person. When his feet touched that still water, 
it changed, with the rustle of unrolling maps, to nothing less 
than a sixth quarter of the globe, beyond the most remote 
imagining of man — a place where islands were colored yel- 
low and blue, their lettering strung across their faces. They 
gave on unknown seas, and Georgie’s urgent desire was to 
return swiftly across this floating atlas to known bearings. 
He told himself repeatedly that it was no good to hurry; but 
still he hurried desperately, and the islands slipped and slid 
under his feet, the straits yawned and widened, till he found 
himself utterly lost in the world’s fourth dimension, with no 
hope of return. Yet only a little distance away he could 
see the old world with the rivers and mountain chains marked 
according to the Sandhurst rules of map-making. Then 
that person for whom he had come to the Lily Lock (that was 
its name) ran up across unexplored territories, and showed 
him a way. They fled hand in hand till they reached a 
road that spanned ravines, and ran along the edge of preci- 
pices, and was tunneled through mountains. “This goes 
to our brushwood-pile,” said his companion; and all his 
trouble was at an end. He took a pony, because he under- 
stood that this was the Thirty-Mile Ride and he must ride 
swiftly, and raced through the clattering tunnels and round 
the curves, always downhill, till he heard the sea to his left, 
and saw it raging under a full moon, against sandy cliffs. 
It was heavy going, but he recognized the nature of the 


236 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


country, the dark-purple downs inland, and the bents that 
whistled in the wind. The road was eaten away in places, 
and the sea lashed at him — black, foamless tongues of 
smooth and glossy rollers; but he was sure that there was less 
danger from the sea than from “Them,” whoever “They” 
were, inland to his right. He knew, too, that he would be 
safe if he could reach the down with the lamp on it. This 
came as he expected : he saw the one light a mile ahead along 
the beach, dismounted, turned to the right, walked quietly 
over to the brushwood-pile, found the little steamer had 
returned to the beach whence he had unmoored it, and — must 
have fallen asleep, for he could remember no more. “I‘m 
gettin’ the hang of the geography of that place,” he said to 
himself, as he shaved next morning. “I must have made 
some sort of circle. Let’s see. The Thirty-Mile Ride 
(now how the deuce did I know it was called the Thirty-Mile 
Ride?) joins the sea-road beyond the first down where the 
lamp is. And that atlas-country lies at the back of the 
Thirty-Mile Ride, somewhere out to the right beyond the 
hills and tunnels. Rummy things, dreams. ’Wonder what 
makes mine fit into each other so?” 

He continued on his solid way through the recurring 
duties of the seasons. The regiment was shifted to another 
station, and he enjoyed road-marching for two months, with 
a good deal of mixed shooting thrown in, and when they 
reached their new cantonments he became a member of the 
local Tent Club, and chased the mighty boar on horseback 
with a short stabbing-spear. There he met the mahseer of 
the Poonch, beside whom the tarpon is as a herring, and he 
who lands him can say that he is a fisherman. This was as 
new and as fascinating as the big-game shooting that fell to 
his portion, when he had himself photographed for the 
mother’s benefit, sitting on the flank of his first tiger. 

Then the adjutant was promoted, and Cottar rejoiced 
with him, for he admired the adjutant greatly, and marveled 
who might be big enough to fill his place; so that he nearly 
collapsed when the mantle fell on his own shoulders, and the 


237 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 

colonel said a few sweet things that made him blush. An 
adjutant’s position does not differ materially from that of 
head of the school, and Cottar stood in the same relation to 
the colonel as he had to his old Head in England. Only, 
tempers wear out in hot weather, and things were said and 
done that tried him sorely, and he made glorious blunders, 
from which the regimental sergeant-major pulled him with a 
loyal soul and a shut mouth. Slovens and incompetents 
raged against him ; the weak-minded strove to lure him from 
the ways of justice; the small-minded — yea, men whom Cot- 
tar believed would never do “things no fellow can do” — 
imputed motives mean and circuitous to actions that he had 
not spent a thought upon; and he tasted injustice, and it 
made him very sick. But his consolation came on parade, 
when he looked down the full companies, and reflected how 
few were in hospital or cells, and wondered when the time 
would come to try the machine of his love and labor. 

But they needed and expected the whole of a man’s work- 
ing-day, and maybe three or four hours of the night. Curi- 
ously enough, he never dreamed about the regiment as he 
was popularly supposed to. The mind, set free from the 
day’s doings, generally ceased working altogether, or, if it 
moved at all, carried him along the old beach-road to the 
downs, the lamp-post, and, once in a while, to terrible Police- 
man Day. The second time that he returned to the world’s 
lost continent (this was a dream that repeated itself again 
and again, with variations, on the same ground) he knew that 
if he only sat still the person from the Lily Lock would help 
him, and he was not disappointed. Sometimes he was 
trapped in mines of vast depth hollowed out of the heart 
of the world, where men in torment chanted echoing songs; 
and he heard this person coming along through the galleries, 
and everything was made safe and delightful. They met 
again in low-roofed Indian railway-carriages that halted 
in a garden surrounded by gilt-and-green railings, where a 
mob of stony white people, all unfriendly, sat at breakfast- 
tables covered with roses, and separated Georgie from his 


238 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


companion, while underground voices sang deep- voiced songs. 
Georgie was filled with enormous despair till they two met 
again. They foregathered in the middle of an endless, hot 
tropic night, and crept into a huge house that stood, he 
knew, somewhere north of the railway-station where the 
people ate among the roses. It was surrounded with gar- 
dens, all moist and dripping; and in one room, reached 
through leagues of whitewashed passages, a Sick Thing lay 
in bed. Now the least noise, Georgie knew, would unchain 
some waiting horror, and his companion knew it, too; but 
when their eyes met across the bed, Georgie was disgusted 
to see that she was a child — a little girl in strapped shoes, 
with her black hair combed back from her forehead. 

“What disgraceful folly!” he thought. “Now she could 
do nothing whatever if Its head came off.” 

Then the Thing coughed, and the ceiling shattered down 
in plaster on the mosquito-netting, and “They” rushed in 
from all quarters. He dragged the child through the stifling 
garden, voices chanting behind them, and they rode the 
Thirty -Mile Ride under whip and spur along the sandy beach 
by the booming sea, till they came to the downs, the lamp- 
post, and the brushwood-pile which was safety. Very often 
dreams would break up about them in this fashion, and they 
would be separated, to endure awful adventures alone. But 
the most amusing times were when he and she had a clear 
understanding that it was all make-believe, and walked 
through mile-wide roaring rivers without even taking off 
their shoes, or set light to populous cities to see how they 
would burn, and were rude as any children to the vague 
shadows met in their rambles. Later in the night they were 
sure to suffer for this, either at the hands of the Railway 
People eating among the roses, or in the tropic uplands at 
the far end of the Thirty-Mile Ride. Together, this did not 
much affright them; but often Georgie would hear her shrill 
cry of “Boy! Boy!” half a world away, and hurry to her 
rescue before “They” maltreated her. 

He and she explored the dark-purple downs as far inland 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 


239 


from the brushwood-pile as they dared, but that was always 
a dangerous matter. The interior was filled with “Them,” 
and “They” went about singing in the hollows, and Georgie 
and she felt safer on or near the seaboard. So thoroughly 
had he come to know the place of his dreams that even wak- 
ing he accepted it as a real country, and made a rough sketch 
of it. He kept his own counsel, of course; but the per- 
manence of the land puzzled him. His ordinary dreams 
were as formless and as fleeting as any healthy dreams could 
be, but once at the brushwood-pile he moved within known 
limits and could see where he was going. There were months 
at a time when nothing notable crossed his sleep. Then 
the dreams would come in a batch of five or six, and next 
morning the map that he kept in his writing-case would be 
written up to date, for Georgie was a most methodical person. 


N 



240 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


There was, indeed, a danger — his seniors said so — of his 
developing into a regular “Auntie Fuss” of an adjutant, 
and when an officer once takes to old-maidism there is more 
hope for the virgin of seventy than for him. 

But fate sent the change that was needed, in the shape 
of a little winter campaign on the Border, which, after the 
manner of little campaigns, flashed out into a very ugly war; 
and Cottar’s regiment was chosen among the first. 

“Now,” said a major, “this’ll shake the cobwebs out of us 
all — especially you, Galahad; and we can see what your hen- 
with-one-chick attitude has done for the regiment.” 

Cottar nearly wept with joy as the campaign went for- 
ward. They were fit — physically fit beyond the other troops ; 
they were good children in camp, wet or dry, fed or unfed; 
and they followed their officers with the quick suppleness and 
trained obedience of a first-class foot-ball fifteen. They 
were cut off from their apology for a base, and cheerfully cut 
their way back to it again; they crowned and cleaned out hills 
full of the enemy with the precision of well-broken dogs of 
chase; and in the hour of retreat, when, hampered with the 
sick and wounded of the column, they were persecuted down 
eleven miles of waterless valley, they, serving as rearguard, 
covered themselves with a great glory in the eyes of fellow- 
professionals. Any regiment can advance, but few know how 
to retreat with a sting in the tail. Then they turned to made 
roads, most often under fire, and dismantled some incon- 
venient mud redoubts. They were the last corps to be with- 
drawn when the rubbish of the campaign was all swept up; and 
after a month in standing camp, which tries morals severely, 
they departed to their own place in column of fours, singing : 

“ ’E’s goin’ to do without ’em — 

Don’t want ’em any more; 

’E’s goin’ to do without ’em. 

As ’e’s often done before. 

’E’s goin’ to be a martyr > 

On a ’ighly novel plan. ^ 

An’ all the boys and girls will say, 

‘Ow! what a nice young man — man — man! 

Ow! what a nice young man!’” 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 


241 


There came out a “Gazette” in which Cottar found that he 
had been behaving with “courage and coolness and discre- 
tion” in all his capacities; that he had assisted the wounded 
under fire, and blown in a gate, also under fire. Net results, 
his captaincy and a brevet majority, coupled with the 
Distinguished Service Order. 

As to his wounded, he explained that they were both 
heavy men, whom he could lift more easily than any one 
else. “Otherwise, of course, I should have sent out one of 
my men; and, of course, about that gate business, we were 
safe the minute we were well under the walls.” But this 
did not prevent his men from cheering him furiously when- 
ever they saw him, or the mess from giving him a dinner on 
the eve of his departure to England. (A year’s leave was 
among the things he had “snaffled out of the campaign,” 
to use his own words.) The doctor, who had taken quite as 
much as was good for him, quoted poetry about “a good 
blade carving the casques of men,” and so on, and everybody 
told Cottar that he was an excellent person; but when he 
rose to make his maiden speech they shouted so that he was 
understood to say, “It isn’t any use tryin’ to speak with you 
chaps rottin’ me like this. Let’s have some pool.” 

****** * 

It is not unpleasant to spend eight-and-twenty days in an 
easy-going steamer on warm waters, in the company of a 
woman who lets you see that you are head and shoulders 
superior to the rest of the world, even though that woman 
may be, and most often is, ten counted years your senior. 
P. & O. boats are not lighted with the disgustful particularity 
of Atlantic liners. There is more phosphorescence at the 
bows, and greater silence and darkness by the hand-steering 
gear aft. 

Awful things might have happened to Georgie but for 
the little fact that he had never studied the first principles 
of the game he was expected to play. So when Mrs. Zuleika, 


242 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


at Aden, told him how motherly an interest she felt in his 
welfare, medals, brevet, and all, Georgie took her at the foot 
of the letter, and promptly talked of his own mother, three 
hundred miles nearer each day, of his home, and so forth, 
all the way up the Red Sea. It was much easier than he had 
supposed to converse with a woman for an hour at a time. 
Then Mrs. Zuleika, turning from parental affection, spoke 
of love in the abstract as a thing not unworthy of study, and 
in discreet twilights after dinner demanded confidences. 
Georgie would have been delighted to supply them, but he 
had none, and did not know it was his duty to manufacture 
them. Mrs. Zuleika expressed surprise and unbelief, and 
asked those questions which deep asks of deep. She learned 
all that was necessary to conviction, and being very much a 
woman, resumed (Georgie never knew that she had aban- 
doned) the motherly attitude. 

“Do you know,” she said, somewhere in the Mediterran- 
ean, “I think you’re the very dearest boy I have ever met in 
my life, and I’d like you to remember me a little. You will 
when you are older, but I want you to remember me now. 
You’ll make some girl very happy.” 

“Oh! Hope so,” said Georgie, gravely; “but there’s 
heaps of time for marryin’ an’ all that sort of thing, ain’t 
there?” 

“That depends. Here are your bean-bags for the Ladies’ 
Competition. I think I’m growing too old to care for these 
tamashas.” 

They were getting up sports, and Georgie was on the com- 
mittee. He never noticed how perfectly the bags were 
sewn, but another woman did, and smiled — once. He liked 
Mrs. Zuleika greatly. She was a bit old, of course, but un- 
commonly nice. There was no nonsense about her. 

A few nights after they passed Gibraltar his dream returned 
to him. She who waited by the brushwood -pile was no 
longer a little girl, but a woman with black hair that grew into 
a “widow’s peak,” combed back from her forehead. He 
knew her for the child in black, the companion of the last 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 


243 


six years, and, as it had been in the time of the meetings 
on the Lost Continent, he was filled with delight unspeakable. 
“They,” for some dreamland reason, were friendly or had 
gone away that night, and the two flitted together over all 
their country, from the brushwood-pile up the Thirty-Mile 
Ride, till they saw the House of the Sick Thing, a pin-point 
in the distance to the left; stamped through the Railway 
Waiting-room where the roses lay on the spread breakfast- 
tables; and returned, by the ford and the city they had once 
burned for sport, to the great swells of the downs under the 
lamp-post. Wherever they moved a strong singing followed 
them underground, but this night there was no panic. All 
the land was empty except for themselves, and at the last 
(they were sitting by the lamp-post hand in hand) she 
turned and kissed him. He woke with a start, staring at the 
waving curtain of the cabin door; he could almost have 
sworn that the kiss was real. 

Next morning the ship was rolling in a Biscay sea, and 
people were not happy; but as Georgie came to breakfast, 
shaven, tubbed, and smelling of soap, several turned to look 
at him because of the light in his eyes and the splendor of 
his countenance. 

“Well, you look beastly fit,” snapped a neighbor. “Any 
one left you a legacy in the middle of the Bay?” 

Georgie reached for the curry, with a seraphic grin. “I 
suppose it’s the gettin’ so near home, and all that. I do feel 
rather festive this mornin’. ’Rolls a bit, doesn’t she?” 

Mrs. Zuleika stayed in her cabin till the end of the voyage, 
when she left without bidding him farewell, and wept pas- 
sionately on the dock-head for pure joy of meeting her chil- 
dren, who, she had often said, were so like their father. 

Georgie headed for his own country, wild with delight of 
his first long furlough after the lean seasons. Nothing was 
changed in that orderly life, from the coachman who met him 
at the station to the white peacock that stormed at the 
carriage from the stone wall above the shaven laws. The 
house took toll of him with due regard to precedence — first 


244 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


the mother; then the father; then the housekeeper who wept 
and praised God; then the butler, and so on down to the 
under-keeper, who had been dogboy in Georgie’s youth, and 
called him “Master Georgie” and was reproved by the 
groom who had taught Georgie to ride. 

“Not a thing changed,” he sighed contentedly, when the 
three of them sat down to dinner in the late sunlight, while 
the rabbits crept out upon the lawn below the cedars, and 
the big trout in the ponds by the home paddock rose for 
their evening meal. 

“Ow/ changes are all over, dear,” cooed the mother; “and 
now I am getting used to your size and your tan (you’re very 
brown, Georgie), I see you haven’t changed in the least. 
You’re exactly like the pater.” 

The father beamed on this man after his own heart, — 
“youngest major in the army, and should have had the V. 
C., sir,” — and the butler listened with his professional mask 
off when Master Georgie spoke of war as it is waged to-day, 
and his father cross-questioned. 

They went out on the terrace to smoke among the roses, 
and the shadow of the old house lay long across the wonderful 
English foliage, which is the only living green in the world. 

“Perfect! By Jove, it’s perfect!” Georgie was looking 
at the round-bosomed woods beyond the home paddock, 
where the white pheasant boxes were ranged; and the golden 
air was full of a hundred sacred scents and sounds. Georgie 
felt his father’s arm tighten in his. 

“It’s not half bad — but hodie mihi , eras tibi , isn’t it? I 
suppose you’ll be turning up some fine day with a girl under 
your arm, if you haven’t one now, eh?” 

“You can make your mind easy, sir. I haven’t one.” 

“Not in all these years?” said the mother. 

“I hadn’t time, mummy. They keep a man pretty busy, 
these days, in the service, and most of our mess are unmar- 
ried, too.” 

“But you must have met hundreds in society — at balls, 
and so on?” 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 


245 


“I’m like the Tenth, mummy: I don’t dance.” 

“Don’t dance! What have you been doing with yourself, 
then — backing other men’s bills?” said the father. 

“Oh, yes; I’ve done a little of that too; but you see, as 
things are now, a man has all his work cut out for him to 
keep abreast of his profession, and my days were always too 
full to let me lark about half the night.” 

“Hmm ! ” — suspiciously. 

“It’s never too late to learn. We ought to give some 
kind of housewarming for the people about, now you’ve 
come back. Unless you want to go straight up to! town, 
dear?” 

“No. I don’t want anything better than this. Let’s 
sit still and enjoy ourselves. I suppose there will be some- 
thing for me to ride if I look for it? ” 

“ Seeing I’ve been kept down to the old brown pair for the 
last six weeks because all the others were being got ready for 
Master Georgie, I should say there might be,” the father 
chuckled. “They’re reminding me in a hundred ways that 
I must take the second place now.” 

“Brutes!” 

“The pater doesn’t mean it, dear; but every one had been 
trying to make your home-coming a success; and you do 
like it, don’t you?” 

“Perfect! Perfect! There’s no place like England — 
when you’ve done your work.” 

“That’s the proper way to look at it, my son.” 

And so up and down the flagged walk till their shadows 
grew long in the moonlight, and the mother went indoors and 
played such songs as a small boy once clamored for, and the 
squat silver candlesticks were brought in, and Georgie climbed 
to the two rooms in the west wing that had been his nursery 
and his play-room in the beginning. Then who should come 
to tuck him up for the night but the mother? And she sat 
down on the bed, and they talked for a long hour, as mother 
and son should, if there is to be any future for the Empire. 
With a simple woman’s deep guile she asked questions and 


246 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


suggested answers that should have waked some sign in the 
face on the pillow, and there was neither quiver of eyelid 
nor quickening of breath, neither evasion nor delay in reply. 
So she blessed him and kissed him on the mouth, which is 
not always a mother’s property, and said something to her 
husband later, at which he laughed profane and incredulous 
laughs. 

All the establishment waited on Georgie next morning, 
from the tallest six-year-old, “with a mouth like a kid glove. 
Master Georgie,” to the under-keeper strolling carelessly 
along the horizon, Georgie’s pet rod in his hand, and “There’s 
a four-pounder risin’ below the lasher. You don’t ’ave ’em in 
Injia, Mast — Major Georgie.” It was all beautiful beyond 
telling, even though the mother insisted on taking him out 
in the landau (the leather had the hot Sunday smell of his 
youth) and showing him off to her friends at all the houses 
for six miles round; and the pater bore him up to town and a 
lunch at the club, where he introduced him, quite carelessly, 
to not less than thirty ancient warriors whose sons were not 
the youngest majors in the army and had not the D. S. O. 
After that it was Georgie’s turn; and remembering his friends, 
he filled up the house with that kind of officer who live in 
cheap lodgings at Southsea or Montpelier Square, Brompton 
— good men all, but not well off. The mother perceived 
that they needed girls to play with; and as there was no 
scarcity of girls, the house hummed like a dovecote in spring. 
They tore up the place for amateur theatricals; they disap- 
peared in the gardens when they ought to have been re- 
hearsing; they swept off every available horse and vehicle, 
especially the governess-cart and the fat pony; they fell 
into the trout-ponds; they picnicked and they tennised; and 
they sat on gates in the twilight, two by two, and Georgie 
found that he was not in the least necessary to their 
entertainment. 

“My word!” said he, when he saw the last of their dear 
backs. “They told me they’ve enjoyed ’emselves, but they 
haven’t done half the things they said they would.” 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 


247 


“I know they’ve enjoyed themselves — immensely,” said 
the mother. “You’re a public benefactor, dear.” 

“Now we can be quiet again, can’t we?” 

“Oh, quite. I’ve a very dear friend of mine that I want 
you to know. She couldn’t come with the house so full, be- 
cause she’s an invalid, and she was away when you first 
came. She’s a Mrs. Lacy.” 

“Lacy! I don’t remember the name about here.” 

“No; they came after you went to India — from Oxford. 
Her husband died there, and she lost some money, I believe. 
They bought The Firs on the Bassett Road. She’s a very 
sweet woman, and we’re very fond of them both.” 

“She’s a widow, didn’t you say?” 

“ She has a daughter. Surely I said so, dear? ” 

“Does she fall into trout-ponds, and gas and giggle, and 
‘Oh, Major Cottah!’ and all that sort of thing?” 

“No, indeed. She’s a very quiet girl, and very musical. 
She always came over here with her music books — compos- 
ing, you know; and she generally works all day, so you 
won’t ” 

“’Talking about Miriam?” said the pater, coming up. 
The mother edged toward him within elbow-reach. There 
was no finesse about Georgie’s father. “Oh, Miriam’s a dear 
girl. Plays beautifully. Rides beautifully, too. She’s a 

regular pet of the household. Used to call me ” The 

elbow went home, and ignorant but obedient always, the 
pater shut himself off. 

“What used she to call you, sir?” 

“All sorts of pet names. I’m very fond of Miriam.” 

“Sounds Jewish — Miriam.” 

“Jew! You’ll be calling yourself a Jew next. She’s one 

of the Herefordshire Lacys. When her aunt dies ” 

Again the elbow. 

“Oh, you won’t see anything of her, Georgie. She’s busy 
with her music or her mother all day. Besides, you’re going 
up to town to-morrow, aren’t you? I thought you said 
something about an Institute meeting? ” The mother spoke. 


248 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“Go .up to town now ! What nonsense!” Once more 
the pater was shut off. 

“I had some idea of it, but I’m not quite sure,” said the son 
of the house. Why did the mother try to get him away be- 
cause a musical girl and her invalid parent were expected? 
He did not approve of unknown females calling his father pet 
names. He would observe these pushing persons who had 
been only seven years in the county. 

All of which the delighted mother read in his countenance, 
herself keeping an air of sweet disinterestedness. 

“They’ll be here this evening for dinner. I’m sending the 
carriage over for them, and they won’t stay more than a 
week.” 

“Perhaps I shall go up to town. I don’t quite know yet.” 
Georgie moved away irresolutely. There was a lecture at 
the United Services Institute on the supply of ammunition 
in the field, and the one man whose theories most irritated 
Major Cottar would deliver it. A heated discussion was 
sure to follow, and perhaps he might find himself moved to 
speak. He took his rod that afternoon and went down to 
thrash it out among the trout. 

“Good sport, dear!” said the mother from the terrace. 

“’Fraid it won’t be, mummy. All those men from town, 
and the girls particularly, have put every trout off his feed 
for weeks. There isn’t one of ’em that cares for fishin’ — 
really. Fancy stampin’ and shoutin’ on the bank, and tellin’ 
every fish for half a mile exactly what you’re goin’ to do, and 
then chuckin’ a brute of a fly at him! By Jove, it would 
scare me if I was a trout ! ” 

But things were not as bad as he had expected. The 
black gnat was on the water, and the water was strictly 
preserved. A three-quarter-pounder at the second cast set 
him for the campaign, and he worked down-stream, crouch- 
ing behind the reed and meadow-sweet; creeping between a 
hornbeam hedge and a foot-wide strip of bank, where he could 
see the trout, but where they could not distinguish him from 
the background; lying almost on his stomach to switch the 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 


249 


blue-upright sidewise through the checkered shadows of a 
gravelly ripple under overarching trees. But he had known 
every inch of the water since he was four feet high. The 
aged and astute between sunk roots, with the large and fat 
that lay in the frothy scum below some strong rush of water, 
sucking as lazily as carp, came to trouble in their turn, at the 
hand that imitated so delicately the flicker and wimple of 
an egg-dropping fly. Consequently, Georgie found himself 
five miles from home when he ought to have been dressing 
for dinner. The housekeeper had taken good care that her 
boy should not go empty, and before he changed to the white 
moth he sat down to excellent claret with sandwiches of 
potted egg and things that adoring women make and men 
never notice. Then back, to surprise the otter grubbing for 
fresh-water mussels, the rabbits on the edge of the beech- 
woods foraging in the clover, and the policeman-like white owl 
stooping to the little field-mice, till the moon was strong, and 
he took his rod apart, and went home through well-remem- 
bered gaps in the hedges. He fetched a compass round the 
house, for, though he might have broken every law of the 
establishment every hour, the law of his boyhood was un- 
breakable: after fishing you went in by the south garden 
back-door, cleaned up in the outer scullery, and did not pre- 
sent yourself to your elders and your betters till you had 
washed and changed. 

“Half -past ten, by Jove! Well, we’ll make the sport an 
excuse. They wouldn’t want to see me the first evening, at 
any rate. Gone to bed, probably.” He skirted by the open 
French windows of the drawing-room. “No, they haven’t. 
They look very comfy in there.” 

He could see his father in his own particular chair, the 
mother in hers, and the back of a girl at the piano by the big 
potpourri-jar. The gardens looked half divine in the moon- 
light, and he turned down through the roses to finish his 
pipe. 

A prelude ended, and there floated out a voice of the kind 
that in his childhood he used to call “creamy” — a full. 


250 STORIES FROM KIPLING 

true contralto; and this is the song that he heard, every 
syllable of it : 

Over the edge of the purple down. 

Where the single lamplight gleams. 

Know ye the road to the Merciful Town 
That is hard by the Sea of Dreams — 

Where the poor may lay their wrongs away. 

And the sick may forget to weep? 

But we — pity us! Oh, pity us! 

We wakeful; ah, pity us! — 

We must go back with Policeman Day — 

Back from the City of Sleep! 

Weary they turn from the scroll and crown. 

Fetter and prayer and plough — 

They that go up to the Merciful Town, 

For her gates are closing now. 

It is their right in the Baths of Night 
Body and soul to steep : 

But we — pity us ! ah, pity us ! 

We wakeful; oh, pity us! — 

We must go back with Policeman Day — 

Back from the City of Sleep ! 

Over the edge of the purple down. 

Ere the tender dreams begin. 

Look — we may look — at the Merciful Town, 

But we may not enter in ! 

Outcasts all, from her guarded wall 
Back to our watch we creep : 

We — pity us ! ah, pity us ! 

We wakeful; oh, pity us! — 

We that go back with Policeman Day — 

Back from the City of Sleep! 

At tlie last echo he was aware that his mouth was dry and 
unknown pulses were beating in the roof of it. The house- 
keeper, who would have it that he must have fallen in and 
caught a chill, was waiting to catch him on the stairs, and, 
since he neither saw nor answered her, carried a wild tale 
abroad that brought his mother knocking at the door. 

“Anything happened, dear? Harper said she thought 
you weren’t ” 

“No; it’s nothing. I’m all right, mummy. Please don’t 
bother.” 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 


251 


He did not recognize his own voice, but that was a small 
matter beside what he was considering. Obviously, most 
obviously, the whole coincidence was crazy lunacy. He 
proved it to the satisfaction of Major George Cottar, who was 
going up to town to-morrow to hear a lecture on the supply 
of ammunition in the field; and having so proved it, the soul 
and brain and heart and body of Georgie cried joyously: 
“That’s the Lily Lock girl — the Lost Continent girl — the 
Thirty-Mile Ride girl — the Brushwood girl! I know her!” 

He waked, stiff and cramped in his chair, to reconsider 
the situation by sunlight, when it did not appear normal. 
But a man must eat, and he went to breakfast, his heart 
between his teeth, holding himself severely in hand. 

“Late, as usual,” said the mother. “ ’My boy, Miss Lacy.” 

A tall girl in black raised her eyes to his, and Georgie ’s 
life training deserted him — just as soon as he realized that 
she did not know. He stared coolly and critically. There 
was the abundant black hair, growing in a widow’s peak, 
turned back from the forehead, with that peculiar ripple 
over the right ear; there were the gray eyes set a little close 
together; the short upper lip, resolute chin, and the known 
poise of the head. There was also the small well-cut mouth 
that had kissed him. 

“Georgie — dear!” said the mother, amazedly, for Miriam 
was flushing under the stare. 

“I — I beg your pardon!” he gulped. “I don’t know 
whether the mother has told you, but I’m rather an idiot 
at times, specially before I’ve had my breakfast. It’s — it’s 
a family failing.” 

He turned to explore among the hot-water dishes on the 
sideboard, rejoicing that she did not know — she did not know. 

His conversation for the rest of the meal was mildly insane, 
though the mother thought she had never seen her boy look 
half so handsome. How could any girl, least of all one of 
Miriam’s discernment, forbear to fall down and worship? 
But deeply Miriam was displeased. She had never been 
stared at in that fashion before, and promptly retired into 


Z52 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


her shell when Georgie announced that he had changed his 
mind about going to town, and would stay to play with Miss 
Lacy if she had nothing better to do. 

“Oh, but don’t let me throw you out. I’m at work. 
I’ve things to do all the morning.” 

“What possessed Georgie to behave so oddly?” the 
mother sighed to herself. “Miriam’s a bundle of feelings — 
like her mother.” 

“You compose — don’t you? Must be a fine thing to be 
able to do that. [“Pig — oh, pig!” thought Miriam.] I 
think I heard you singin’ when I came in last night after 
fishin’. All about a Sea of Dreams, wasn’t it? [Miriam 
shuddered to the core of the soul that afflicted her.] Awfully 
pretty song. How’d you think of such things? ” 

“You only composed the music, dear, didn’t you?” 

“The words too. I’m sure of it,” said Georgie, with a 
sparkling eye. No; she did not know. 

“Yeth; I wrote the words too.” Miriam spoke slowly, 
for she knew she lisped when she was nervous. 

“Now how could you tell, Georgie?” said the mother, as 
delighted as though the youngest major in the army were 
ten years old, showing off before company. 

“I was sure of it, somehow. Oh, there are heaps of things 
about me, mummy, that you don’t understand. Looks as if 
it were goin’ to be a hot day — for England. Would you 
care for a ride this afternoon, Miss Lacy? We can start out 
after tea, if you’d like it.” 

Miriam could not in decency refuse, but any woman might 
see she was not filled with delight. 

“That will be very nice, if you take the Bassett Road. It 
will save me sending Martin down to the village,” said the 
mother, filling in gaps. 

Like all good managers, the mother had her one weakness — 
a mania for little strategies that should economize horses 
and vehicles. Her men-folk complained that she turned 
them into common carriers, and there was a legend in the 
family that she had once said to the pater on the morning of 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 253 

a meet: “If you should kill near Bassett, dear, and if it isn’t 
too late, would you mind just popping over and matching me 
this?” 

“I knew that was coming. You’d never miss a chance, 
mother. If it’s a fish or a trunk I won’t.” Georgie laughed. 

“It’s only a duck. They can do it up very neatly at 
Mallett’s,” said the mother, simply. “You won’t mind, 
will you? We’ll have a scratch dinner at nine, because it’s 
so hot.” 

The long summer day dragged itself out for centuries; 
but at last there was tea on the lawn, and Miriam appeared. 

She was in the saddle before he could offer to help, with the 
clean spring of the child who mounted the pony for the 
Thirty-Mile, Ride. The day held mercilessly, though 
Georgie got down thrice to look for imaginary stones in 
Rufus’s foot. One cannot say even simple things in broad 
light, and this that Georgie meditated was not simple. So 
he spoke seldom, and Miriam was divided between relief 
and scorn. It annoyed her that the great hulking thing 
should know she had written the words of the song overnight; 
for though a maiden may sing her most secret fancies aloud, 
she does not care to have them trampled over by the male 
Philistine. They rode into the little red-brick street of 
Bassett, and Georgie made untold fuss over the disposition 
of that duck. It must go in just such a package, and be 
fastened to the saddle in just such a manner, though eight 
o’clock had struck and they were miles from dinner. 

“We must be quick!” said Miriam, bored and angry. 

“There’s no great hurry; but we can cut over Dowhead 
Down, and let ’em out on the grass. That will save us half 
an hour.” 

The horses capered on the short, sweet-smelling turf, and 
the delaying shadows gathered in the valley as they cantered 
over the great dun down that overhangs Bassett and the 
Western coaching-road. Insensibly the pace quickened 
without thought of mole-hills; Rufus, gentleman that he was, 
waiting on Miriam’s Dandy till they should have cleared the 


254 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


rise. Then down the two-mile slope they raced together, 
the wind whistling in their ears, to the steady throb of eight 
hoofs and the light click-click of the shifting bits. 

“ Oh, that was glorious ! ” Miriam cried, reining in. ‘ Dandy 
and I are old friends, but I don’t think we’ve ever gone better 
together.” 

“No; but you’ve gone quicker, once or twice.” 

“Really? When?” 

Georgie moistened his lips. “Don’t you remember the 
Thirty-Mile Ride — with me — when ‘They’ were after us — 
on the beach-road, with the sea to the left — going toward 
the lamp-post on the downs?” 

The girl gasped. “What — what do you mean?” she 
said hysterically. 

“The Thirty -Mile Ride, and — and all the rest of it.” 

“You mean ? I didn’t sing anything about the Thirty- 

Mile Ride. I know I didn’t. I have never told a living soul. 

“You told about Policeman Day, and the lamp at the top 
of the downs, and the City of Sleep. It all joins on, you 
know — it’s the same country — and it was easy enough to 
see where you had been.” 

“Good God! — It joins on — of course it does; but — I have 

been — you have been Oh, let’s walk, please, or I shall 

fall off!” 

Georgie ranged alongside, and laid a hand that shook 
below her bridle-hand, pulling Dandy into a walk. Miriam 
was sobbing as he had seen a man sob under the touch of the 
bullet. 

“It’s all right — it’s all right,” he whispered feebly. “Only 
— only it’s true, you know.” 

“True! Am I mad?” 

“Not unless I’m mad as well. Do try to think a minute 
quietly. How could any one conceivably know anything 
about the Thirty-Mile Ride having anything to do with you, 
unless he had been there?” 

“ But where ? But where? Tell me!” 

“There — wherever it may be — in our country, I suppose. 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 


255 


Do you remember the first time you rode it — the Thirty-Mile 
Ride, I mean? You must.” 

“It was all dreams — all dreams!” 

“Yes, but tell, please; because I know.” 

“Let me think. I — we were on no account to make any 
noise — on no account to make any noise.” She was staring 
between Dandy’s ears, with eyes that did not see, and a 
suffocating heart. 

“Because ‘It’ was dying in the big house?” Georgie went 
on, reining in again. 

“There was a garden with green-and-gilt railings — all hot. 
Do you remember?” 

“I ought to. I was sitting on the other side of the bed 
before ‘It* coughed and ‘They’ came in.” 

“You!” — the deep voice was unnaturally full and strong, 
and the girl’s wide-opened eyes burned in the dusk as she 
stared him through and through. “Then you’re the Boy — 
my Brushwood Boy, and I’ve known you all my life!” 

She fell forward on Dandy’s neck. Georgie forced himself 
out of the weakness that was overmastering his limbs, and 
slid an arm round her waist. The head dropped on his 
shoulder, and he found himself with parched lips saying 
things that up till then he believed existed only in printed 
works of fiction. Mercifully the horses were quiet. She 
made no attempt to draw herself away when she recovered, 
but lay still, whispering, “Of course you’re the Boy, and I 
didn’t know — I didn’t know.” 

“I knew last night; and when I saw you at breakfast ” 

“ Oh, that was why ! I wondered at the time. You would, 
of course.” 

“I couldn’t speak before this. Keep your head where it 
is, dear. It’s all right now — all right now, isn’t it?” 

“But how was it I didn’t know — after all these years and 
years? I remember — oh, what lots of things I remember!” 

“Tell me some. I’ll look after the horses.” 

“I remember waiting for you when the steamer came in. 
Do you?” 


256 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“At the Lily Lock, beyond Hong-Kong and Java?” 

“Do you call it that, too?” 

“You told me it was when I was lost in the continent. 
That was you that showed me the way through the moun- 
tains?” 

“When the islands slid? It must have been, because 
you’re the only one I remember. All the others were ‘Them.’ ” 

“Awful brutes they w r ere, too.” 

“I remember showing you the Thirty-Mile Ride the first 
time. You ride just as you used to — then. You are you!” 

“That’s odd. I thought that of you this afternoon. Isn’t 
it wonderful?” 

“What does it all mean? Why should you and I of the 
millions of people in the world have this — this thing between 
us? What does it mean? I’m frightened.” 

“This!” said Georgie. The horses quickened their pace. 
They thought they had heard an order. “Perhaps w T hen 
we die we may find out more, but it means this now.” 

There was no answer. What could she say? As the 
world went, they had known each other rather less than 
eight and a half hours, but the matter was one that did not 
concern the world. There was a very long silence, while 
the breath in their nostrils drew cold and sharp as it might 
have been a fume of ether. 

“That’s the second,” Georgie whispered. “You remem- 
ber, don’t you?” 

“It’s not!” — furiously. “It’s not!” 

“On the downs the other night — months ago. You were 
just as you are now, and we went over the country for miles 
and miles.” 

“It was all empty, too. They had gone away. Nobody 
frightened us. I wonder why, Boy?” 

“Oh, if you remember that , you must remember the rest. 
Confess!” 

“I remember lots of things, but I know I didn’t. I never 
have — till just now.” 

“You did , dear.” 


THE BRUSHWOOD BOY 


257 


“I know I didn’t, because — oh, it’s no use keeping any- 
thing back! — because I truthfully meant to.” 

“And truthfully did.” 

“No; meant to; but someone else came by.” 

“There wasn’t any one else. There never has been.” 

“There was — there always is. It was another woman — 
out there on the sea. I saw her. It was the 26th of May. 
I’ve got it written down somewhere.” 

“Oh you’ve kept a record of your dreams, too? That’s 
odd about the other woman, because I happened to be on the 
sea just then. v 

“I was right. How do I know what you’ve done when 
you were awake — and I thought it was only you/” 

“You never were more wrong in your life. What a little 
temper you’ve got. Listen to me a minute, dear.” And 
Georgie, though he knew it not, committed black perjury. 
“It — it isn’t the kind of thing one says to any one, because 
they’d laugh; but on my word and honor, darling, I’ve 
never been kissed by a living soul outside my own people in 
all my life. Don’t laugh, dear. I wouldn’t tell any one but 
you, but it’s the solemn truth.” 

“I knew* You are you. Oh, I knew you’d come some 
day; but I didn’t know you were you in the least till you 
spoke.” 

“Then give me another.” 

“And you never cared or looked anywhere? Why, all 
the round world must have loved you from the very minute 
they saw you. Boy.” 

“They kept it to themselves if they did. No; I never 
cared.” 

“And we shall be late for dinner — horribly late. Oh, 
how can I look at you in the light before your mother — and 
mine!” 

“We’ll play you’re Miss Lacy till the proper lime comes. 
What’s the shortest limit for people to get engaged? S’pose 
we have got to go through all the fuss of an engagement, 
haven’t we?” 


258 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“Oh, I don’t want to talk about that. It’s so common- 
place. I’ve thought of something that you don’t know. 
I’m sure of it. What’s my name? ” 

“Miri — no, it isn’t, by Jove! Wait half a second, and 
it’ll come back to me. You aren’t — you can’t? Why, those 
old tales — before I went to school! I’ve never thought of 
’em from that day to this. Are you the original, only 
Annieanlouise?” 

“It was what you always called me ever since the be- 
ginning. Oh ! We’ve turned into the avenue, and we must 
be an hour late.” 

“What does it matter? The chain goes as far back as 
those days? It must, of course — of course it must. I’ve 
got to ride round with this pestilent old bird — confound 
him!” 

““‘Ha! ha!” said duck laughing’ — do you remember 
that?” 

“Yes, I do — flower-pots on my feet, and all. We’ve been 
together all this while; and I’ve got to say good-bye to you 
till dinner. Sure I’ll see you at dinner-time? Sure you 
won’t sneak up to your room, darling, and leave me all the 
evening? Good-bye, dear — good-bye.” 

“Good-bye, Boy, good-bye. Mind the arch! Don’t 
let Rufus bolt into his stables. Good-bye. Yes, I’ll come 
down to dinner; but — what shall I do when I see you in the 
light!” 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

(1895-6) 


PART I 

I have done one braver thing 
Than all the worthies did; 

And yet a braver thence doth spring. 

Which is to keep that hid. 

The Undertaking. 


“Is it officially declared yet?” 

“They’ve gone as far as to admit ‘extreme local scarcity/ 
and they’ve started relief-works in one or two districts, the 
paper says.” 

“That means it will be declared as soon as they can make 
sure of the men and the rolling-stock. ’Shouldn’t wonder if 
it were as bad as the ’78 Famine.” 

“’Can’t be,” said Scott, turning a little in the long cane 
chair. “We’ve had fifteen-anna crops in the north, and 
Bombay and Bengal report more than they know what to do 
with. They’ll be able to check it before it gets out of hand. 
It will only be local.” 

Martyn picked the Pioneer from the table, read through 
the telegrams once more, and put up his feet on the chair- 
rests. It was a hot, dark, breathless evening, heavy with the 
smell of the newly watered Mall. The flowers in the Club 
gardens were dead and black on their stalks, the little lotus- 
pond was a circle of caked mud, and the tamarisk trees were 
white with the dust of weeks. Most of the men were at the 
band-stand in the public gardens — from the Club veranda 
you could hear the native Police band hammering stale 
waltzes — or on the polo-ground, or in the high-walled fives- 

259 


260 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


court, hotter than a Dutch oven. Half a dozen grooms, 
squatted at the heads of their ponies, waited their masters’ 
return. From time to time a man would ride at a foot-pace 
into the Club compound, and listlessly loaf over to the white- 
washed barracks beside the main building. These were 
supposed to be chambers. Men lived in them, meeting the 
same white faces night after night at dinner, and drawing 
out their office-work till the latest possible hour, that they 
might escape that doleful company. 

“What are you going to do?” said Martyn, with a yawn. 
“Let’s have a swim before dinner.” 

“ ’Water’s hot. I was at the bath to-day.” 

“’Play you game o’ billiards — fifty up.” 

“It’s a hundred and five in the hall now. Sit still and 
don’t be so abominably energetic.” 

A grunting camel swung up to the porch, his badged and 
belted rider fumbling a leather pouch. 

“ Kubber-kargaz-lci-yektraaa” the man whined, handing 
down the newspaper extra — a slip printed on one side only 
and damp from the press. It was pinned up on the green- 
baize board, between notices of ponies for sale and fox 
terriers missing. 

Martyn rose lazily, read it, and whistled. “ It’s declared ! ” 
he cried. “One, two, three — eight districts go under the 
operations of the Famine Code ek dum. They’ve put Jimmy 
Hawkins in charge.” 

“Good business!” said Scott, with the first sign of interest 
he had shown. “When in doubt hire a Punjabi. I worked 
under Jimmy when I first came out and he belonged to the 
Punjab. He has more bundobust than most men.” 

“Jimmy’s a Jubilee Knight now,” said Martyn. “He’s 
a good chap, even though he is a thrice-born civilian and 
went to the Benighted Presidency. What unholy names 
these Madras districts rejoice in — all ungas or rungas or 
pillays or polliums ! ” 

A dog-cart drove up in the dusk, and a man entered, mop- 
ping his head. He was editor of the one daily paper at the 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 


261 


capital of a province of twenty-five million natives and a 
few hundred white men: as his staff was limited to himself 
and one assistant, his office-hours ran variously from ten to 
twenty a day. 

“Hi, Raines; you’re supposed to know everything,” said 
Martyn, stopping him. “How’s this Madras ‘scarcity’ 
going to turn out?” 

“No one knows as yet. There’s a message as long as your 
arm coming in on the telephone. I’ve left my cub to fill it 
out. Madras has owned she can’t manage it alone, and 
Jimmy seems to have a free hand in getting all the men he 
needs. Arbuthnot’s warned to hold himself in readiness.” 

“‘Badger’ Arbuthnot?” 

“The Peshawur chap. Yes: and the Pi wires that Ellis 
and Clay have been moved from the Northwest already, and 
they’ve taken half a dozen Bombay men, too. It’s pukka 
famine, by the looks of it.” 

“They’re nearer the scene of action than we are; but if it 
comes to indenting on the Punjab this early, there’s more 
in this than meets the eye,” said Martyn. 

“Here to-day and gone to-morrow. ’Didn’t come to stay 
for ever,” said Scott, dropping one of Marryat’s novels and 
rising to his feet. “Martyn, your sister’s waiting for you.” 

A rough gray horse was backing and shifting at the edge 
of the veranda, where the light of a kerosene lamp fell 
on a brown calico habit and a white face under a gray felt 
hat. 

“Right, O!” said Martyn. “I’m ready. Better come 
and dine with us, if you’ve nothing to do, Scott. William, 
is there any dinner in the house?” 

“I’ll go home and see,” was the rider’s answer. “You 
can drive him over — at eight, remember.” 

Scott moved leisurely to his room, and changed into the 
evening-dress of the season and the country; spotless white 
linen from head to foot, with a broad silk cummerbund. Din- 
ner at the Martyns’ was a decided improvement on the goat- 
mutton, twiney-tough fowl and tinned entrees of the Club. 


262 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


But it was a great pity that Martyn could not afford to send 
his sister to the hills for the hot weather. As an Acting 
District Superintendent of Police, Martyn drew the magnifi- 
cent pay of six hundred depreciated silver rupees a month, 
and his little four-roomed bungalow said just as much. There 
were the usual blue-and-white-striped jail-made rugs on the i 
uneven floor; the usual glass-studded Amritsar phulkaris 
draped on nails driven into the flaking whitewash of the ! 
walls; the usual half-dozen chairs that did not match, picked 
up at sales of dead men’s effects; and the usual streak of 
black grease where the leather punka-thong ran through the 
wall. It was as though everything had been unpacked the 
night before to be repacked next morning. Not a door in the 
house was true on its hinges. The little windows, fifteen 
feet up, were darkened with wasp-nests, and lizards hunted 
flies between the beams of the wood-ceiled roof. But all 
this was part of Scott’s life. Thus did people live who had 
such an income; and in a land where each man’s pay, age, 
and position are printed in a book, that all may read, it is 
hardly worth while to play at pretence in word or deed. Scott 
counted eight years’ service in the Irrigation Department, 
and drew eight hundred rupees a month, on the understand- 
ing that if he served the State faithfully for another twenty- 
two years he could retire on a pension of some four 
hundred rupees a month. His working-life, which had been 
spent chiefly under canvas or in temporary shelters where a 
man could sleep, eat, and write letters, was bound up with 
the opening and guarding of irrigation canals, the handling 
of two or three thousand workmen of all castes and creeds, 
and the payment of vast sums of coined silver. He had 
finished that spring, not without credit, the last section of 
the great Mosuhl Canal, and — much against his will, for he 
hated office work — had been sent in to serve during the hot 
weather on the accounts and supply side of the Department, 
with sole charge of the sweltering sub-office at the capital 
of the Province. Martyn knew this; William, his sister, 
knew it; and everybody knew it. Scott knew, too, as well 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 263 

as the rest of the world, that Miss Martyn had come out to 
India four years ago to keep house for her brother, who, as 
everyone knew, had borrowed the money to pay for her 
passage, and that she ought, as all the world said, to have 
married at once. Instead of this, she had refused some half 
a dozen subalterns, a Civilian twenty years her senior, one 
major, and a man in the Indian Medical Department. This, 
too, was common property. She had “ stayed down three hot 
weathers,’ * as the saying is, because her brother was in debt 
and could not afford the expense of her keep at even a cheap 
hill-station. Therefore her face was white as bone, and in 
the center of her forehead was a big silvery scar about the size 
of a shilling — the mark of a Delhi sore, which is the same as 
a “Bagdad date.” This comes from drinking bad water, 
and slowly eats into the flesh till it is ripe enough to be 
burned out. 

None the less William had enjoyed herself hugely in her 
four years. Twice she had been nearly drowned while ford- 
ing a river; once she had been run away with on a camel; had 
witnessed a midnight attack of thieves on her brother’s camp; 
had seen justice administered, with long sticks, in the open 
under trees; could speak Urdu and even rough Punjabi with 
a fluency that was envied by her seniors; had entirely fallen 
out of the habit of writing to her aunts in England, or cutting 
the pages of the English magazines; had been through a 
very bad cholera year, seeing sights unfit to be told; and had 
wound up her experiences by six weeks of typhoid fever, 
during which her head had been shaved — and hoped to keep 
her twenty-third birthday that September. It is conceivable 
that the aunts would not have approved of a girl who never 
set foot on the ground if a horse were within hail; who rode 
to dances with a shawl thrown over her skirts; who wore her 
hair cropped and curling all over her head; who answered 
indifferently to the name of William or Bill; whose speech 
was heavy with the flowers of the vernacular; who could act 
in amateur theatricals, play on the banjo, rule eight servants 
and two horses, their accoutns and their diseases, and look 


264 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


men slowly and deliberately between the eyes — even after 
they had proposed to her and been rejected. 

“I like men who do things,” she had confided to a man 
in the Educational Department, who was teaching the sons 
of cloth-merchants and dyers the beauty of Wordsworth’s 
“Excursion” in annotated cram-books, and when he grew 
poetical, William explained that she “didn’t understand 
poetry very much; it made her head ache,” and an- 
other broken heart took refuge at the Club. But it was all 
William’s fault. She delighted in hearing men talk of their 
own work, and that is the most fatal way of bringing a man 
to your feet. 

Scott had known her for some three years, meeting her, 
as a rule, under canvas, when his camp and her brother’s 
joined for a day on the edge of the Indian Desert. He had 
danced with her several times at the big Christmas gather- 
ings, when as many as five hundred white people came in to 
the station; and had always a great respect for her housekeep- 
ing and her dinners. 

She looked more like a boy than ever when, the meal ended, 
she sat, rolling cigarettes, her low forehead puckered be- 
neath the dark curls as she twiddled the papers and stuck out 
her rounded chin when the tobacco stayed in place, or, with 
a gesture as true as a schoolboy’s throwing a stone, tossed 
the finished article across the room to Martyn, who caught it 
with one hand, and continued his talk with Scott. It was 
all “shop,” — canals and the policing of canals; the sins of 
villagers who stole more water than they had paid for, and 
the grosser sin of native constables who connived at the 
thefts; of the transplanting bodily of villages to newly ir- 
rigated ground, and of the coming fight with the desert in 
the south when the Provincial funds should warrant the open- 
ing of the long-surveyed Luni Protective Canal System. 
And Scott spoke openly of his great desire to be put on one 
particular section of the work where he knew the land and 
the people; and Martyn sighed for a billet in the Himalayan 
foot-hills, and said his mind of his superiors, and William 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 265 

rolled cigarettes and said nothing, but smiled gravely on her 
brother because he was happy. 

At ten Scott’s horse came to the door, and the evening 
was ended. 

The lights of the two low bungalows in which the daily 
paper was printed showed bright across the road. It was 
too early to try to find sleep, and Scott drifted over to the 
editor. Raines, stripped to the waist like a sailor at a gun, 
lay half asleep in a long chair, waiting for night telegrams. 
He had a theory that if a man did not stay by his work all 
day and most of the night he laid himself open to fever: so 
he ate and slept among his files. 

“Can you do it?” he said drowsily “I didn’t mean to 
bring you over.” 

“About what? I’ve been dining at the Martyns’.” 

“The Madras famine, of course. Martyn’s warned, too. 
They’re taking men where they can find ’em. I sent a note 
to you at the Club just now, asking if you could do us a letter 
once a week from the south — between two and three columns, 
say. Nothing sensational, of course, but just plain facts 
about who is doing what, and so forth. Our regular rates — 
ten rupees a column.” 

“’Sorry, but it’s out of my line,” Scott answered, staring 
absently at the map of India on the wall. “It’s rough on 
Martyn — very. ’Wonder what he’ll do with his sister? 
’Wonder what the deuce they’ll do with me? I’ve no famine 
experience. This is the first I’ve heard of it. Am I ordered?” 

“Oh, yes. Here’s the wire. They’ll put you on to relief- 
works,” Raines said, “with a horde of Madrassis dying like 
flies; one native apothecary and half a pint of cholera-mix- 
ture among the ten thousand of you. It comes of your being 
idle for the moment. Every man who isn’t doing two men’s 
work seems to have been called upon. Hawkins evidently 
believes in Punjabis. It’s going to be quite as bad as any- 
thing they have had in the last ten years.” 

“It’s all in the day’s work, worse luck. I suppose I shall 
get my orders officially some time to-morrow. I’m awfully 


266 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


glad I happened to drop in. ’Better go and pack my kit 
now. Who relieves me here — do you know? ” 

Raines turned over a sheaf of telegrams. “McEuan,” 
said he, “from Murree.” 

Scott chuckled. “He thought he was going to be cool all 
summer. He’ll be very sick about this. Well, no good talk- 
ing. ’Night.” 

Two hours later, Scott, with a clear conscience, laid himself 
down to rest on a string cot in a bare room. Two worn 
bullock trunks, a leather water-bottle, a tin ice-box, and his 
pet saddle sewed up in sacking were piled at the door, and 
the Club secretary’s receipt for last month’s bill was under 
his pillow. His orders came next morning, and with them 
an unofficial telegram from Sir James Hawkins, who was not 
in the habit of forgetting good men when he had once met 
them, bidding him report himself with all speed at some 
unpronounceable place fifteen hundred miles to the south, 
for the famine was sore in the land, and white men were 
needed. 

A pink and fattish youth arrived in the red-hot noonday, 
whimpering a little at fate and famines, which never allowed 
any one three months’ peace. He was Scott’s successor — 
another cog in the machinery, moved forward behind his 
fellow whose services, as the official announcement ran, 
“were placed at the disposal of the Madras Government for 
famine duty until further orders.” Scott handed over the 
funds in his charge, showed him the coolest corner in the 
office, warned him against excess of zeal, and, as twilight 
fell, departed from the Club in a hired carriage, with his 
faithful body-servant, Faiz Ullah, and a mound of disordered 
baggage atop, to catch the southern mail at the loopholed 
and bastioned railway-station. The heat from the thick 
brick walls struck him across the face as if it had been a hot 
towel; and he reflected that there were at least five nights 
and four days of this travel before him. Faiz Ullah, used to 
the chances of service, plunged into the crowd on the stone 
platform, while Scott, a black cheroot between his teeth, 


267 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

waited till liis compartment should be set away. A dozen 
native policemen, with their rifles and bundles, shouldered 
into the press of Punjabi farmers, Sikh craftsmen, and 
greasy-locked Afreedee pedlars, escorting with all pomp 
Martyn’s uniform-case, water-bottles, ice-box, and bedding- 
roll. They saw Faiz Ullah’s lifted hand, and steered for 
it. 

“My Sahib and your Sahib,” said Faiz Ullah to Martyn’s 
man, “will travel together. Thou and I, O brother, will 
thus secure the servants’ places close by; and because of our 
masters’ authority none will dare to disturb us.” 

When Faiz Ullah reported all things ready, Scott settled 
down at full length, coatless and bootless, on the broad 
leather-covered bunk. The heat under the iron-arched roof 
of the station might have been anything over a hundred 
degrees. At the last moment Martyn entered, dripping. 

“Don’t swear,” said Scott, lazily; “it’s too late to change 
your carriage; and we’ll divide the ice.” 

“What are you doing here?” said the policeman. 

“I’m lent to the Madras Government, same as you. By 
Jove, it’s a bender of a night! Are you taking any of your 
men down?” 

“A dozen. I suppose I shall have to superintend relief 
distributions. ’Didn’t know you were under orders too.” 

“I didn’t, till after I left you last night. Raines had the 
news first. My orders came this morning. McEuan re- 
lieved me at four, and I got off at once. ’Shouldn’t wonder 
if it wouldn’t be a good thing — this famine — if we come 
through it alive.” 

“Jimmy ought to put you and me to work together,” said 
Martyn; and then, after a pause: “My sister’s here.” 

“Good business,” said Scott, heartily. “Going to get off 
at Umballa, I suppose, and go up to Simla. Who’ll she stay 
with there?” 

“No-o; that’s just the trouble of it. She’s going down 
with me.” 

Scott sat bolt upright under the oil lamps as the train 


268 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


jolted past Tarn-Taran. “What! You don’t mean you 
couldn’t afford ” 

“Tain’t that. I’d have scraped up the money somehow.” 

“You might have come to me, to begin with,” said Scott, 
stiffly; “we aren’t altogether strangers.” 

“Well, you needn’t be stuffy about it. I might, but — 
you don’t know my sister. I’ve been explaining and exhorting 
and all the rest of it all day — lost my temper since seven this 
morning, and haven’t got it back yet — but she wouldn’t 
hear of any compromise. A woman’s entitled to travel with 
her husband if she wants to; and William says she’s on the 
same footing. You see, we’ve been together all our lives, 
more or less, since my people died. It isn’t as if she were an 
ordinary sister.” 

“All the sisters I’ve ever heard of would have stayed 
where they were well off.” 

“ She’s as clever as a man, confound her,” Martyn went on. 
“ She broke up the bungalow over my head while I was talk- 
ing at her. ’Settled the whole thing in three hours — servants, 
horses, and all. I didn’t get my orders till nine.” 

“Jimmy Hawkins won’t be pleased,” said Scott. “A 
famine’s no place for a woman.” 

“Mrs. Jim — I mean Lady Jim’s in camp with him. At 
any rate, she says she will look after my sister. William 
wired down to her on her own responsibility, asking if she 
could come, and knocked the ground from under me by 
showing me her answer.” 

Scott laughed aloud. “If she can do that she can take 
care of herself, and Mrs. Jim won’t let her run into any mis- 
chief. There aren’t many women, sisters or wives, who 
would walk into a famine with their eyes open. It isn’t 
as if she didn’t know what these things mean. She was 
through the Jaloo cholera last year.” 

The train stopped at Amritsar, and Scott went back to 
the ladies’ compartment, immediately behind their carriage. 
William, with a cloth riding-cap on her curls, nodded af- 
fably. 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 269 

“Come in and have some tea,” she said. “’Best thing 
in the world for heat-apoplexy.” 

“Do I look as if I were going to have heat-apoplexy?” 

“’Never can tell,” said William, wisely. “It’s always 
best to be ready.” 

She had arranged her compartment with the knowledge 
of an old campaigner. A felt-covered water-bottle hung in 
the draught of one of the shuttered windows; a tea-set of 
Russian china, packed in a wadded basket, stood on the seat; 
and a traveling spirit-lamp was clamped against the wood- 
work above it. 

William served them generously, in large cups, hot tea, 
which saves the veins of the neck from swelling inopportunely 
on a hot night. It was characteristic of the girl that her 
plan of action once settled, she asked for no comments on it. 
Life among men who had a great deal of work to do, and very 
little time to do it in, had taught her the wisdom of effacing, 
as well as of fending for, herself. She did not by word or deed 
suggest that she would be useful, comforting, or beautiful 
in their travels, but continued about her business serenely : 
put the cups back without clatter when tea was ended, and 
made cigarettes for her guests. 

“This time last night,” said Scott, “we didn’t expect — er — 
this kind of thing, did we?” 

“I’ve learned to expect anything,” said William. “You 
know, in our service, we live at the end of the telegraph; but, 
of course, this ought to be a good thing for us all, depart- 
ment ally — if we live.” 

“It knocks us out of the running in our own Province,” 
Scott replied, with equal gravity. “I hoped to be put on 
the Luni Protective Works this cold weather, but there’s no 
saying how long the famine may keep us.” 

“Hardly beyond October, I should think,” said Martyn. 
“ It will be ended, one way or the other, then.” 

“And we’ve nearly a week of this,” said William. “Sha’n’t 
we be dusty when it’s over?” 

For a night and a day they knew their surroundings, and 


270 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


for a night and a day, skirting the edge of the great Indian 
Desert on a narrow-gauge railway, they remembered how 
in the days of their apprenticeship they had come by that 
road from Bombay. Then the languages in which the names 
of the stations were written changed, and they launched south 
into a foreign land, where the very smells were new. Many 
long and heavily laden grain-trains were in front of them, and 
they could feel the hand of Jimmy Hawkins from far off. 
They waited in extemporized sidings while processions of 
empty trucks returned to the north, and were coupled on to 
slow crawling trains, and dropped at midnight, Heaven 
knew where; but it was furiously hot, and they walked to and 
fro among sacks, and dogs howled. Then they came to an 
India more strange to them than to the untraveled English- 
man — the flat, red India of palm-tree, palmyra-palm, and 
rice — the India of the picture-books, of “Little Harry and 
His Bearer” — all dead and dry in the baking heat. They 
had left the incessant passenger-traffic of the north and west 
far and far behind them. Here the people crawled to the 
side of the train, holding their little ones in their arms; and 
a loaded truck would be left behind, the men and women 
clustering round it like ants by spilled honey. Once in the 
twilight they saw on a dusty plain a regiment of little brown 
men, each bearing a body over his shoulder; and when the 
train stopped to leave yet another truck, they perceived that 
the burdens were not corpses, but only foodless folk picked 
up beside dead oxen by a corps of Irregular troops. Now 
they met more white men, here one and there two, whose 
tents stood close to the line, and who came armed with writ- 
ten authorities and angry words to cut off a truck. They 
were too busy to do more than nod at Scott and Martyn, and 
stare curiously at William, who could do nothing except make 
tea, and watch how her men staved off the rush of wailing, 
walking skeletons, putting them down three at a time in 
heaps, with their own hands uncoupling the marked trucks, 
or taking receipts from the hollow-eyed, weary white men, 
who spoke another argot than theirs. They ran out of ice. 


271 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

out of soda-water, and out of tea; for they were six days and 
seven nights on the road, and it seemed to them like seven 
times seven years. 

At last, in a dry, hot dawn, in a land of death, lit by long 
red fires of railway-sleepers, where they were burning the 
dead, they came to their destination, and were met by 
Jim Hawkins, the Head of the Famine, unshaven, unwashed, 
but cheery, and entirely in command of affairs. 

Martyn, he decreed then and there, was to live on trains 
till further orders; was to go back with empty trucks, filling 
them with starving people as he found them, and dropping 
them at a famine-camp on the edge of the Eight Districts. 
He would pick up supplies and return, and his constables 
would guard the loaded grain-cars, also picking up people, and 
would drop them at a camp a hundred miles south. Scott — 
Hawkins was very glad to see Scott again — would that same 
hour take charge of a convoy of bullock-carts, and would go 
south, feeding as he went, to yet another famine-camp, 
where he would leave his starving — there would be no lack 
of starving on the route — and wait for orders by telegraph. 
Generally, Scott was in all small things to act as he thought 
best. 

William bit her under lip. There was no one in the wide 
world like her one brother, but Martyn’s orders gave him no 
discretion. She came out on the platform, marked with dust 
from head to foot, a horse-shoe wrinkle on her forehead, put 
here by much thinking during the past week, but as self- 
possessed as ever. Mrs. Jim — who should have been Lady 
Jim but that no one remembered the title — took possession of 
her with a little gasp. 

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re here,” she almost sobbed. “You 
oughtn’t to, of course, but there — there isn’t another woman 
in the place, and we must help each other, you know; and 
we’ve all the wretched people and the little babies they are 
selling.” 

“I’ve seen some,” said William. 

“Isn’t it ghastly? I’ve bought twenty — they’re in our 


272 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


camp; but won’t you have something to eat first? We’ve 
more than ten people can do here; and I’ve got a horse for 
you. Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come, dear. You’re a Pun- 
jabi, too, you know.” 

“Steady, Lizzie,” said Hawkins, over his shoulder. “We’ll 
look after you, Miss Martyn. ’Sorry I can’t ask you to 
breakfast, Martyn. You’ll have to eat as you go. Leave 
two of your men to help Scott. These poor devils can’t 
stand up to load carts. Saunders” (this to the engine- 
driver, who was half asleep in the cab), “back down and get 
those empties away. You’ve ‘line clear’ to Anundrapillay; 
they’ll give you orders north of that. Scott, load up your 
carts from that B. P. P. truck, and be off as soon as you can. 
The Eurasian in the pink shirt is your interpreter and guide. 
You’ll find an apothecary of sorts tied to the yoke of the 
second wagon. He’s been trying to bolt; you’ll have to look 
after him. Lizzie, drive Miss Martyn to camp, and tell them 
to send the red horse down here for me.” 

Scott, with Faiz Ullah and two policemen, was already 
busied with the carts, backing them up to the truck and un- 
bolting the sideboards quietly, while the others pitched in the 
bags of millet and wheat. Hawkins watched him for as long 
as it took to fill one cart. 

“That’s a good man,” he said. “If all goes well I shall 
work him hard.” This was Jim Hawkins’s notion of the 
highest compliment one human being could pay another. 

An hour later Scott was under way; the apothecary threat- 
ening him with the penalties of the law for that he, a member 
of the Subordinate Medical Department, had been coerced 
and bound against his will and all laws governing the liberty 
of the subject; the pink-shirted Eurasian begging leave to see 
his mother, who happened to be dying some three miles 
away: “Only verree, verree short leave of absence, and will 
presently return, sar — ”; the two constables, armed with 
staves, bringing up the rear; and Faiz Ullah, a Mohamme- 
dan’s contempt for all Hindoos and foreigners in every line 
of his face, explaining to the drivers that though Scott Sahib 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 


273 


was a man to be feared on all fours, he, Faiz Ullah, was 
Authority Itself. 

The procession creaked past Hawkins’s camp — three 
stained tents under a clump of dead trees, behind them the 
famine-shed, where a crowd of hopeless ones tossed their 
arms around the cooking-kettles. 

“ ’Wish to Heaven William had kept out of it,” said Scott 
to himself, after a glance. “ We’ll have cholera, sure as a gun, 
when the Rains break.” 

But William seemed to have taken kindly to the operations 
of the Famine Code, which, when famine is declared, super- 
sede the workings of the ordinary law. Scott saw her, the 
center of a mob of weeping women, in a calico riding-habit, 
and a blue-gray felt hat with a gold puggaree. 

“I want fifty rupees, please. I forgot to ask Jack before 
he went away. Can you lend it me? It’s for condensed 
milk for the babies,” said she. 

Scott took the money from his belt, and handed it over 
without a word. “ For goodness sake, take care of yourself,” 
he said. 

“ Oh, I shall be all right. We ought to get the milk in two 
days. By the way, the orders are, I was to tell you, that 
you’re to take one of Sir Jim’s horses. There’s a gray Cabuli 
here that I thought would be just your style, so I’ve said 
you’d take him. Was that right?” 

“That’s awfully good of you. We can’t either of us talk 
much about style, I am afraid.” 

Scott was in a weather-stained drill shooting-kit, very 
white at the seams and a little frayed at the wrists. William 
regarded him thoughtfully, from his pith helmet to his 
greased ankle-boots. “You look very nice, I think. Are 
you sure you’ve everything you’ll need — quinine, chlorodyne, 
and so on?” 

“ ’Think so,” said Scott, patting three or four of his shoot- 
ing-pockets as he mounted and rode alongside his convoy. 

“Good-bye,” he cried. 

“Good-bye, and good luck,” said William. “I’m awfully 


274 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


obliged for the money.” She turned on a spurred heel and 
disappeared into the tent, while the carts pushed on past the 
famine-sheds, past the roaring lines of the thick, fat fires, 
down to the baked Gehenna of the South. 


PART II 

So let us melt and make no noise. 

No tear-floods nor sigh-tempests move; 

’T were profanation of our joys 
To tell the Laity our love. 

A Valediction. 

It was punishing work, even though he traveled by night 
and camped by day; but within the limits of his vision there 
was no man whom Scott could call master. He was as free 
as Jimmy Hawkins — freer, in fact, for the Government held 
the Head of the Famine tied neatly to a telegraph-wire, and 
if Jimmy had ever regarded telegrams seriously, the death- 
rate of that famine would have been much higher than it was. 

At the end of a few days* crawling Scott learned some- 
thing of the size of the India which he served, and it aston- 
ished him. His carts, as you know, were loaded with wheat, 
millet, and barley, good food-grains needing only a little 
grinding. But the people to whom he brought the life-giving 
stuffs were rice-eaters. They could hull rice in their mortars, 
but they knew nothing of the heavy stone querns of the North, 
and less of the material that the white man convoyed so 
laboriously. They clamored for rice — unhusked paddy 
such as they were accustomed to — and, when they found 
that there was none, broke away weeping from the sides of 
the cart. What was the use of these strange hard grains 
that choked their throats? They would die. And then 
and there very many of them kept their word. Others took 
their allowance, and bartered enough millet to feed a man 
through a week for a few handfuls of rotten rice saved by 
some less unfortunate. A few put their shares into the rice- 


27 5 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

mortars, pounded it, and made a paste with foul water; but 
they were very few. Scott understood dimly that many 
people in the India of the South ate rice, as a rule, but he had 
spent his service in a grain Province, had seldom seen rice in 
the blade or ear, and least of all would have believed that in 
time of deadly need men could die at arm’s length of plenty, 
sooner than touch food they did not know. In vain the 
interpreters interpreted; in vain his two policemen showed 
in vigorous pantomime what should be done. The starving 
crept away to their bark and weeds, grubs, leaves, and clay, 
and left the open sacks untouched. But sometimes the 
women laid their phantoms of children at Scott’s feet, looking 
back as they staggered away. 

Faiz Ullah opined it was the will of God that these foreign- 
ers should die, and it remained only to give orders to burn 
the dead. None the less there was no reason why the Sahib 
should lack his comforts, and Faiz Ullah, a campaigner 
of experience, had picked up a few lean goats and had added 
them to the procession. That they might give milk for the 
morning meal, he was feeding them on the good grain that 
these imbeciles rejected. “Yes,” said Faiz Ullah; “if the 
Sahib thought fit, a little milk might be given to some of the 
babies”; but, as the Sahib well knew, babies were cheap, 
and, for his own part, Faiz Ullah held that there was no 
Government order as to babies. Scott spoke forcefully to 
Faiz Ullah and the two policemen, and bade them capture 
goats where they could find them. This they most joyfully 
did, for it was a recreation, and many ownerless goats were 
driven in. Once fed, the poor brutes were willing enough 
to follow the carts, and a few days’ good food — food such 
as human beings died for lack of — set them in milk again. 

“But I am no goatherd,” said Faiz Ullah. “It is against 
my izzat [my honor].” 

“ When we cross the Bias River again we will talk of izzat” 
Scott replied. “Till that day thou and the policemen shall 
be sweepers to the camp, if I give the order.” 

“Thus, then, it is done,” grunted Faiz Ullah, “if the 


276 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


Sahib will have it so”; and he showed how a goat should be 
milked, while Scott stood over him. 

“Now we will feed them,” said Scott; “twice a day we will 
feed them”; and he bowed his back to the milking, and took 
a horrible cramp. 

When you have to keep connection unbroken between a 
restless mother of kids and a baby who is at the point of 
death, you suffer in all your system. But the babies were 
fed. Each morning and evening Scott would solemnly lift 
them out one by one from their nest of gunny-bags under the 
cart-tilts. There were always many who could do no more 
than breathe, and the milk was dropped into their toothless 
mouths drop by drop, with due pauses when they choked. 
Each morning, too, the goats were fed; and since they would 
straggle without a leader, and since the natives were hire- 
lings, Scott was forced to give up riding, and pace slowly at 
the head of his flocks, accommodating his step to their weak- 
nesses. All this was sufficiently absurd, and he felt the 
absurdity keenly; but at least he was saving life, and when 
the women saw that their children did not die, they made 
shift to eat a little of the strange foods, and crawled after 
the carts, blessing the master of the goats. 

“Give the women something to live for,” said Scott to 
himself, as he sneezed in the dust of a hundred little feet, 
“and they’ll hang on somehow. This beats William’s con- 
densed-milk trick all to pieces. I shall never live it down, 
though.” 

He reached his destination very slowly, found that a 
rice-ship had come in from Burmah, and that stores of paddy 
were available; found also an overworked Englishman in 
charge of the shed, and, loading the carts, set back to cover 
the ground he had already passed. He left some of the 
children and half his goats at the famine-shed. For this he 
was not thanked by the Englishman, who had already more 
stray babies than he knew what to do with. Scott’s back 
was suppled to stooping now, and he went on with his wayside 
ministrations in addition to distributing the paddy. More 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR Ml 

babies and more goats were added unto him; but now some 
of the babies wore rags, and beads round their wrists or 
necks. “ That , ” said the interpreter, as though Scott did not 
know, “ signifies that their mothers hope in eventual con- 
tingency to resume them offeecially.” 

“The sooner, the better,” said Scott; but at the same time 
he marked, with the pride of ownership, how this or that 
little Ramasawmy was putting on flesh like a bantam. As 
the paddy-carts were emptied he headed for Hawkins’s camp 
by the railway, timing his arrival to fit in with the dinner- 
hour, for it was long since he had eaten at a cloth. He had 
no desire to make any dramatic entry, but an accident of 
the sunset ordered it that when he had taken off his helmet 
to get the evening breeze, the low light should fall across his 
forehead, and he could not see what was before him; while 
one waiting at the tent door beheld with new eyes a young 
man, beautiful as Paris, a god in a halo of golden dust, 
walking slowly at the head of his flocks, while at his knee ran 
small naked Cupids. But she laughed — William, in a slate- 
colored blouse, laughed consumedly till Scott, putting the 
best face he could upon the matter, halted his armies and 
bade her admire the kindergarten. It was an unseemly sight, 
but the proprieties had been left ages ago, with the tea- 
party at Amritsar Station, fifteen hundred miles to the north. 

“They are coming on nicely,” said William. “We’ve 
only five-and-twenty here now. The women are beginning 
to take them away a ^ain /,^ 

“Are you in charge ofthe babies, then?” 

“Yes — Mrs. Jim and I. We didn’t think of goats, though. 
We’ve been trying condensed milk and water.” 

“Any losses?” 

“More than I care to think of,” said William, with a 
shudder. “And you?” 

Scott said nothing. There had been many little burials 
along his route — one cannot burn a dead baby — many 
mothers who had wept when they did not find again the 
children they had trusted to the care of the Government. 


278 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


Then Hawkins came out carrying a razor, at which Scott 
looked hungrily, for he had a beard that he did not love. And 
when they sat down to dinner in the tent he told his tale in 
few words, as it might have been an official report. Mrs. 
Jim snuffled from time to time, and Jim bowed his head 
judicially; but William’s gray eyes were on the clean-shaven 
face, and it was to her that Scott seemed to appeal. 

“Good for the Pauper Province!” said William, her chin 
on her hand, as she leaned forward among the wine-glasses. 
Her cheeks had fallen in, and the scar on her forehead was 
more prominent than ever, but the well-turned neck rose 
roundly as a column from the ruffle of the blouse which was 
the accepted evening-dress in camp. 

“It was awfully absurd at times,” said Scott. “You see, 
I didn’t know much about milking or babies. They’ll 
chaff my head off, if the tale goes up north.” 

“Let ’em,” said William, haughtily. “We’ve all done 
coolie-work since we came. I know Jack has.” This was to 
Hawkins’s address, and the big man smiled blandly. 

“Your brother’s a highly efficient officer, William,” said 
he, “and I’ve done him the honor of treating him as he 
deserves. Remember, I write the confidential reports.” 

“Then you must say that William’s worth her weight 
in gold,” said Mrs. Jim. “I don’t know what we should 
have done without her. She has been everything to us.” 
She dropped her hand upon William’s, which was rough with 
much handling of reins, and William patted it softly. Jim 
beamed on the company. Things were going well with his 
world. Three of his more grossly incompetent men had died, 
and their places had been filled by their betters. Every day 
brought the Rains nearer. They had put out the famine in 
five of the Eight Districts, and, after all, the death-rate had 
not been too heavy — things considered. He looked Scott 
over carefully, as an ogre looks over a man, and rejoiced in 
his thews and iron -hard condition. 

“He’s just the least bit in the world tucked up,” said Jim 
to himself, “but he can do two men’s work yet.” Then he 


279 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

was aware that Mrs. Jim was telegraphing to him, and ac- 
cording to the domestic code the message ran: “A clear case. 
Look at them!” 

He looked and listened. All that William was saying was: 
“What can you expect of a country where they call a bhistee 
[a water-carrier] a tunni-cutch ?” and all that Scott answered 
was: “I shall be glad to get back to the Club. Save me a 
dance at the Christmas Ball, won’t you?” 

“It’s a far cry from here to the Lawrence Hall,” said Jim. 
“Better turn in early, Scott. It’s paddy -carts to-morrow; 
you’ll begin loading at five.” 

“Aren’t you going to give Mr. Scott a single day’s rest?” 

“ ’Wish I could, Lizzie, but I’m afraid I can’t. As long as 
he can stand up we must use him.” 

“Well, I’ve had one Europe evening, at least. By Jove, 
I’d nearly forgotten! What do I do about those babies of 
mine?” 

“Leave them here,” said William — “we are in charge 
of that — and as many goats as you can spare. I must learn 
how to milk now.” 

“If you care to get up early enough to-morrow I’ll show 
you. I have to milk, you see. Half of ’em have beads and 
things round their necks. You must be careful not to take 
’em off, in case the mothers turn up.” 

“You forget I’ve had some experience here.” 

“I hope to goodness you won’t overdo.” Scott’s voice 
was unguarded. 

“I’ll take care of her,” said Mrs. Jim, telegraphing hun- 
dred-word messages as she carried William off, while Jim 
gave Scott his orders for the coming campaign. It was very 
late — nearly nine o’clock. 

“Jim, you’re a brute,” said his wife, that night; and the 
Head of the Famine chuckled. 

“Not a bit of it, dear. I remember doing the first Jan- 
diala Settlement for the sake of a girl in a crinoline, and she 
was slender, Lizzie. I’ve never done as good a piece of work 
since. He’ll work like a demon.” 


280 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“But you might have given him one day.” 

“And let things come to a head now? No, dear, it’s their 
happiest time.” 

“I don’t believe either of the darlings know what’s the 
matter with them. Isn’t it beautiful? Isn’t it lovely?” 

“ Getting up at three to learn to milk, bless her heart ! Oh, 
ye gods, why must we grow old and fat? ” 

“ She’s a darling. She has done more work under me ” 

“Under you ! The day after she came she was in charge 
and you were her subordinate. You’ve stayed there ever 
since; she manages you almost as well as you manage me.” 

“She doesn’t, and that’s why I love her. She’s as direct 
as a man — as her brother.” 

“Her brother’s weaker than she is. He’s always coming to 
me for orders ; but he’s honest, and a glutton for work. I con- 
fess I’m rather fond of William, and if I had a daughter ” 

The talk ended. Far away in the Derajat was a child’s 
grave more than twenty years old, and neither Jim nor his 
wife spoke of it any more. 

“All the same, you’re responsible,” Jim added, after a 
moment’s silence. 

“Bless ’em!” said Mrs. Jim, sleepily. 

Before the stars paled, Scott, who slept in an empty cart, 
waked and went about his work in silence; it seemed at that 
hour unkind to rouse Faiz Ullah and the interpreter. His 
head being close to the ground, he did not hear William till 
she stood over him in the dingy old riding-habit, her eyes still 
heavy with sleep, a cup of tea and a piece of toast in her 
hands. There was a baby on the ground, squirming on a 
piece of blanket, and a six-year-old child peered over Scott’s 
shoulder. 

“Hai, you little rip,” said Scott, “how the deuce do you 
expect to get your rations if you aren’t quiet?” 

A cool white hand steadied the brat, who forthwith choked 
as the milk gurgled into his mouth. 

“’Mornin’,” said the milker. “You’ve no notion how 
these little fellows can wriggle,” 


281 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

“Oh, yes, I have.” She whispered, because the world 
was asleep. “Only I feed them with a spoon or a rag. Yours 
are fatter than mine. . . . And you’ve been doing this 

day after day? ” The voice was almost lost. 

“Yes; it was absurd. Now you try,” he said, giving place 
to the girl. “Look out! A goat’s not a cow.” 

The goat protested against the amateur, and there was a 
scuffle, in which Scott snatched up the baby. Then it was 
all to do over again, and William laughed softly and merrily. 
She managed, however, to feed two babies and a third. 

“Don’t the little beggars take it well?” said Scott. “I 
trained ’em.” 

They were very busy and interested, when lo ! it was broad 
daylight, and before they knew, the camp was awake, and 
they kneeled among the goats, surprised by the day, both 
flushed to the temples. Yet all the round world rolling up 
out of the darkness might have heard and seen all that had 
passed between them. 

“Oh,” said William, unsteadily, snatching up the tea and 
toast, “I had this made for you. It’s stone-cold now. I 
thought you mightn’t have anything ready so early. ’Better 
not drink it. It’s — it’s stone-cold.” 

“That’s awfully kind of you. It’s just right. It’s aw- 
fully good of you, really. I’ll leave my kids and goats with 
you and Mrs. Jim, and, of course, any one in camp can show 
you about the milking.” 

“Of course,” said William; and she grew pinker and pinker 
and statelier and more stately, as she strode back to her tent, 
fanning herself with the saucer. 

There were shrill lamentations through the camp when 
the elder children saw their nurse move off without them. 
Faiz Ullah unbent so far as to jest with the policemen, and 
Scott turned purple with shame because Hawkins, already in 
the saddle, roared. 

A child escaped from the care of Mrs. Jim, and, running 
like a rabbit, clung to Scott’s boot, William pursuing with 
long, easy strides. 


282 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“I will not go — I will not go!” shrieked the child, twining 
his feet round Scott’s ankle. “They will kill me here. I do 
not know these people.” 

“I say,” said Scott, in broken Tamil, “I say, she will do 
you no harm. Go with her and be well fed.” 

“Come!” said William, panting, with a wrathful glance 
at Scott, who stood helpless and, as it were, hamstrung. 

“Go back,” said Scott quickly to William. “I’ll send the 
little chap over in a minute.” 

The tone of authority had its effect, but in a way Scott 
did not exactly intend. The boy loosened his grasp, and 
said with gravity: “I did not know the woman was thine. I 
will go.” Then he cried to his companions, a mob of three-, 
four-, and five-year-olds waiting on the success of his venture 
ere they stampeded: “Go back and eat. It is our man’s 
woman. She will obey his orders.” 

Jim collapsed where he sat; Faiz Ullah and the two police- 
men grinned; and Scott’s orders to the cartmen flew like hail. 

“That is the custom of the Sahibs when truth is told in 
their presence,” said Faiz Ullah. “The time comes that I 
must seek new service. Young wives, especially such as 
speak our language and have knowledge of the ways of the 
Police, make great trouble for honest butlers in the matter of 
weekly accounts.” 

What William thought of it all she did not say, but when 
her brother, ten days later, came to camp for orders, and 
heard of Scott’s performances, he said, laughing: “Well, 
that settles it. He’ll be Bakri Scott to the end of his days.” 
( Bakri , in the Northern vernacular, means a goat.) “What 
a lark! I’d have given a month’s pay to have seen him nurs- 
ing famine babies. I fed some with conjee [rice-water], 
but that was all right.” 

“It’s perfectly disgusting,” said his sister, with blazing 
eyes. “A man does something like — like that — and all you 
other men think of is to give him an absurd nickname, and 
then you laugh and think it’s funny.” 

“Ah,” said Mrs. Jim, sympathetically. 


283 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

“Well, you can’t talk, William. You christened little 
Miss Demby the Button-quail, last cold weather; you know 
you did. India’s the land of nicknames.” 

“That’s different,” William replied. “She was only a girl, 
and she hadn’t done anything except walk like a quail, and 
she does. But it isn’t fair to make fun of a man.” 

“Scott won’t care,” said Martyn. “You can’t get a rise 
out of old Scotty. I’ve been trying for eight years, and 
you’ve only known him for three. How does he look? ” 

“He looks very well,” said William, and went away with a 
flushed cheek. “ Bakri Scott, indeed!” Then she laughed 
to herself, for she knew her country. “But it will be Bakri all 
the same”; and she repeated it under her breath several 
times slowly, whispering it into favor. 

When he returned to his duties on the railway, Martyn 
spread the name far and wide among his associates, so that 
Scott met it as he led his paddy-carts to war. The natives 
believed it to be some English title of honor, and the cart- 
drivers used it in all simplicity till Faiz Ullah, who did not 
approve of foreign japes, broke their heads. There was very 
little time for milking now, except at the big camps, where 
Jim had extended Scott’s idea and was feeding large flocks 
on the useless northern grains. Sufficient paddy had come 
now into the Eight Districts to hold the people safe, if it were 
only distributed quickly, and for that purpose no one was 
better than the big Canal officer, who never lost his temper, 
never gave an unnecessary order, and never questioned an 
order given. Scott pressed on, saving his cattle, washing 
their galled necks daily, so that no time should be lost on the 
road ; reported himself with his rice at the minor famine-sheds, 
unloaded, and went back light by forced night-march to the 
next distributing center, to find Hawkins’s unvarying tele- 
gram: “Do it again.” And he did it again and again, and 
yet again, while Jim Hawkins, fifty miles away, marked off 
on a big map the tracks of his wheels gridironing the stricken 
lands. Others did well — Hawkins reported at the end they 
all did well — but Scott was the most excellent, for he kept 


284 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


good coined rupees by him, settled for his own cart repairs 
on the spot, and ran to meet all sorts of unconsidered extras, 
trusting to be recouped later on. Theoretically, the Govern- 
ment should have paid for every shoe and linch pin, for every 
hand employed in the loading; but Government vouchers 
cash themselves slowly, and intelligent and efficient clerks 
write at’ great length, contesting unauthorized expenditures 
of eight annas. The man who wants to make his work a 
success must draw on his own bank-account of money or 
other things as he goes. 

“I told you he’d work,” said Jimmy to his wife, at the 
end of six weeks. “He’s been in sole charge of a couple of 
thousand men up north, on the Mosuhl Canal, for a year; 
but he gives less trouble than young Martyn with his ten 
constables; and I’m morally certain — only Government 
doesn’t recognize moral obligations — he’s spent about half 
his pay to grease his wheels. Look at this, Lizzie, for one 
week’s work! Forty miles in two days with twelve carts; 
two days’ halt building a famine-shed for young Rogers. 
(Rogers ought to have built it himself, the idiot!) Then 
forty miles back again, loading six carts on the way, and 
distributing all Sunday. Then in the evening he pitches in 
a twenty-page Demi-Official to me, saying the people where 
he is might be ‘advantageously employed on relief -work,’ 
and suggesting that he put ’em to work on some broken- 
down old reservoir he’s discovered, so as to have a good 
water-supply when the Rains break. ’Thinks he can cauk 
the dam in a fortnight. Look at his marginal sketches — 
aren’t they clear and good? I knew he was pukka, but I 
didn’t know he was as pukka as this.” 

“I must show these to William,” said Mrs. Jim. “The 
child’s wearing herself out among the babies.” 

“Not more than you are, dear. Well, another two months 
ought to see us out of the wood. I’m sorry it’s not in my 
power to recommend you for a V. C.” 

William sat late in her tent that night, reading through 
page after page of the square handwriting, patting the 


285 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

sketches of proposed repairs to the reservoir, and wrinkling 
her eyebrows over the columns of figures of estimated water- 
supply. 

“And he finds time to do all this,” she cried to her- 
self, “and — well, I also was present. I’ve saved one or two 
babies.” 

She dreamed for the twentieth time of the god in the golden 
dust, and woke refreshed to feed loathsome black children, 
scores of them, wastrels picked up by the wayside, their 
bones almost breaking their skin, terrible and covered with 
sores. 

Scott was not allowed to leave his cart-work, but his letter 
was duly forwarded to the Government, and he had the con- 
solation, not rare in India, of knowing that another man 
was reaping where he had sown. That also was discipline 
profitable to the soul. 

“He’s much too good to waste on canals,” said Jimmy. 
“Any one can oversee coolies. You needn’t be angry, 
William; he can — but I need my pearl among bullock-drivers, 
and I’ve transferred him to the Khanda district, where he’ll 
have it all to do over again. He should be marching now.” 

“He’s not a coolie,” said William, furiously. “He ought 
to be doing his regulation work.” 

“He’s the best man in his service, and that’s saying a good 
deal; but if you must use razors to cut grindstones, why, I 
prefer the best cutlery.” 

“Isn’t it almost time we saw him again?” said Mrs. Jim. 
“I’m sure the poor boy hasn’t had a respectable meal for a 
month. He probably sits on a cart and eats sardines with 
his fingers.” 

“All in good time, dear. Duty before decency — wasn’t 
it Mr. Chucks said that?” 

“No; it was Midshipman Easy,” William laughed. “I 
sometimes wonder how it will feel to dance or listen to a band 
again, or sit under a roof. I can’t believe I ever wore a ball- 
frock in my life.” 

“One minute,” said Mrs. Jim, who was thinking. “If 


286 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


he goes to KRanda, he passes within five miles of us. Of 
course he’ll ride in.” 

“Oh, no, he won’t,” said William. 

“How do you know, dear?” 

“It will take him off his work. He won’t have time.” 

“He’ll make it,” said Mrs. Jim, with a twinkle. 

“It depends on his own judgment. There’s absolutely no 
reason why he shouldn’t, if he thinks fit,” said Jim. 

“He won’t see fit,” William replied, without sorrow or 
emotion. “It wouldn’t be him if he did.” 

“One certainly gets to know people rather well in times 
like these,” said Jim, drily; but William’s face was serene as 
ever, and even as she prophesied, Scott did not appear. 

The Rains fell at last, late, but heavily; and the dry, gashed 
earth was red mud, and servants killed snakes in the camp, 
where everyone was weather-bound for a fortnight — all 
except Hawkins, who took horse and plashed about in the wet, 
rejoicing. Now the Government decreed that seed-grain 
should be distributed to the people, as well as advances of 
money for the purchase of new oxen ; and the white men were 
doubly worked for this new duty, while William skipped from 
brick to brick laid down on the trampled mud, and dosed her 
charges with warming medicines that made them rub their 
little round stomachs ; and the milch goats throve on the rank 
grass. There was never a word from Scott in the Khanda 
district, away to the southeast, except the regular telegraphic 
report to Hawkins. The rude country roads had disap- 
peared; his drivers were half mutinous; one of Martyn’s 
loaned policemen had died of cholera; and Scott was taking 
thirty grains of quinine a day to fight the fever that comes 
with the rain: but those were things Scott did not consider 
necessary to report. He was, as usual, working from a base 
of supplies on a railway line, to cover a circle of fifteen miles’ 
radius, and since full loads were impossible, he took quarter 
loads, and toiled four times as hard by consequence; for he 
did not choose to risk an epidemic which might have grown 
uncontrollable by assembling villagers in thousands at the 


287 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

relief-sheds. It was cheaper to take Government bullocks, 
work them to death, and leave them to the crows in the 
wayside sloughs. 

That was the time when eight years of clean living and 
hard condition told, though a man’s head were ringing like 
a bell from the cinchona, and the earth swayed under his 
feet when he stood and under his bed when he slept. If 
Hawkins had seen fit to make him a bullock-driver, that, 
he thought, was entirely Hawkins’s own affair. There were 
men in the North who would know what he had done; men 
of thirty years’ service in his own department who would 
say that it was “not half bad”; and above, immeasurably 
above, all men of all grades, there was William in the thick 
of the fight, who would approve because she understood. He 
had so trained his mind that it would hold fast to the mechan- 
ical routine of the day, though his own voice sounded strange 
in his own ears, and his hands, when he wrote, grew large as 
pillows or small as peas at the end of his wrists. That stead- 
fastness bore his body to the telegraph-office at the railway- 
station, and dictated a telegram to Hawkins saying that the 
Khanda district was, in his judgment, now safe, and he 
“waited further orders.” 

The Madrassee telegraph-clerk did not approve of a large, 
gaunt man falling over him in a dead faint, not so much be- 
cause of the weight as because of the names and blows that 
Faiz Ullah dealt him when he found the body rolled under a 
bench. Then Faiz Ullah took blankets, quilts, and cover- 
lets where he found them, and lay down under them at his 
master’s side, and bound his arms with a tent-rope, and filled 
him with a horrible stew of herbs, and set the policeman to 
fight him when he wished to escape from the intolerable heat 
of his coverings, and shut the door of the telegraph-office to 
keep out the curious for two nights and one day; and when a 
light engine came down the line, and Hawkins kicked in the 
door, Scott hailed him weakly but in a natural voice, and 
Faiz Ullah stood back and took all the credit. 

“For two nights, Heaven-born, he was pagal” said Faiz 


288 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


Ullah. “Look at my nose, and consider the eye of the 
policeman. He beat us with his bound hands; but we sat 
upon him, Heaven-born, and though his words were tez , we 
sweated him. Heaven-born, never has been such a sweat! 
He is weaker now than a child; but the fever has gone out 
of him, by the grace of God. There remains only my nose 
and the eye of the constabeel. Sahib, shall I ask for my 
dismissal because my Sahib has beaten me?” And Faiz 
Ullah laid his long thin hand carefully on Scott’s chest to be 
sure that the fever was all gone, ere he went out to open 
tinned soups and discourage such as laughed at his swelled 
nose. 

“The district’s all right,” Scott whispered. “It doesn’t 
make any difference. You got my wire? I shall be fit in a 
week. ’Can’t understand how it happened. I shall be fit in 
a few days.” 

“You’re coming into camp with us,” said Hawkins. 

“But look here — but ” 

“It’s all over except the shouting. We sha’n’t need you 
Punjabis any more. On my honor, we sha’n’t. Martyn 
goes back in a few weeks; Arbuthnot’s returned al- 
ready; Ellis and Clay are putting the last touches to a new 
feeder-line the Government’s built as relief-work. Morten’s 
dead — he was a Bengal man, though; you wouldn’t know 
him. ’Pon my word, you and Will — Miss Martyn — seem 
to have come through it as well as anybody.” 

“Oh, how is she, by the way?” The voice went up and 
down as he spoke. 

“Going strong when I left her. The Roman Catholic 
Missions are adopting the unclaimed babies to turn them 
into little priests; the Basil Mission is taking some, and the 
mothers are taking the rest. You should hear the little 
beggars howl when they’re sent away from William. She’s 
pulled down a bit, but so are we all. Now, when do you 
suppose you’ll be able to move?” 

“ I can’t come into camp in this state. I won’t,” he replied, 
pettishly. 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 


£89 


“Well, you are rather a sight, but from what I gathered 
there it seemed to me they’d be glad to see you under any 
conditions. I’ll look over your work here, if you like, for a 
couple of days, and you can pull yourself together while 
Faiz Ullah feeds you up.” 

Scott could walk dizzily by the time Hawkins’s inspection 
was ended, and he flushed all over when Jim said of his work 
that it was “not half bad,” and volunteered, further, that he 
had considered Scott his right-hand man through the fa min e 
and would feel it his duty to say as much officially. 

So they came back by rail to the old camp; but there 
were no crowds near it; the long fires in the trenches 
were dead and black, and the famine-sheds were almost 
empty. 

“You see!” said Jim. “There isn’t much more to do. 
’Better ride up and see the wife. They’ve pitched a tent 
for you. Dinner’s at seven. I’ve some work here.” 

Riding at a foot-pace, Faiz Ullah by his stirrup, Scott 
came to William in the brown calico riding-habit, sitting 
at the dining-tent door, her hands in her lap, white as ashes, 
thin and worn, with no luster in her hair. There did not 
seem to be any Mrs. Jim on the horizon, and all that William 
could say was: “My word, how pulled down you look!” 

“I’ve had a touch of fever. You don’t look very well 
yourself.” 

“Oh, I’m fit enough. We’ve stamped it out. I suppose 
you know?” 

Scott nodded. “We shall all be returned in a few weeks. 
Hawkins told me.” 

“Before Christmas, Mrs. Jim says. Sha’n’t you be glad 
to go back? I can smell the wood-smoke already”; William 
sniffed. “We shall be in time for all the Christmas doings. 
I don’t suppose even the Punjab Government would be base 
enough to transfer Jack till the new year?” 

“It seems hundreds of years ago — the Punjab and all that 
— doesn’t it ? Are you glad you came ? ’ ’ 

“Now it’s all over, yes. It has been ghastly here, though. 


290 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


You know we had to sit still and do nothing, and Sir Jim 
was away so much.” 

“Do nothing! How did you get on with the milking?” 

“I managed it somehow — after you taught me. ’Re- 
member?” 

Then the talk stopped with an almost audible jar. Still 
no Mrs. Jim. 

“That reminds me, I owe you fifty rupees for the con- 
densed milk. I thought perhaps you’d be coming here 
when you were transferred to the Khanda district, and I 
could pay you then; but you didn’t.” 

“I passed within five miles of the camp, but it was in the 
middle of a march, you see, and the carts were breaking down 
every few minutes, and I couldn’t get ’em over the ground till 
ten o’clock that night. I wanted to come awfully. You 
knew I did, didn’t you?” 

“I — believe — I— did,” said William, facing him with level 
eyes. She was no longer white. 

“Did you understand?” 

“Why you didn’t ride in? Of course I did.” 

“Why?” 

“Because you couldn’t, of course. I knew that.” 

“Did you care?” 

“If you had come in — but I knew you wouldn’t — but if 
you had , I should have cared a great deal. You know I 
should.” 

“Thank God I didn’t! Oh, but I wanted to! I couldn’t 
trust myself to ride in front of the carts, because I kept 
edging ’em over here, don’t you know?” 

“I knew you wouldn’t,” said William, contentedly. 
“Here’s your fifty.” 

Scott bent forward and kissed the hand that held the 
greasy notes. Its fellow patted him awkwardly but very 
tenderly on the head. 

“And you knew, too, didn’t you?” said William, in a new 
voice. 

“No, on my honor, I didn’t. I hadn’t the — the cheek to 


291 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

expect anything of the kind, except ... I say, were 
you out riding anywhere the day I passed by to Khanda?” 

William nodded, and smiled after the manner of an angel 
surprised in a good deed. 

“Then it was just a speck I saw of your habit in the ” 

“Palm-grove on the Southern cart-road. I saw your 
helmet when you came up from the nullah by the temple — 
just enough to be sure that you were all right. D’ you care ? ” 
This time Scott did not kiss her hand, for they were in the 
dusk of the dining-tent, and, because William’s knees were 
trembling under her, she had to sit down in the nearest chair, 
where she wept long and happily, her head on her arms; and 
when Scott imagined that it would be well to comfort her, 
she needing nothing of the kind, she ran to her own tent; 
and Scott went out into the world, and smiled upon it largely 
and idiotically. But when Faiz Ullah brought him a drink, 
he found it necessary to support one hand with the other, or 
the good whisky and soda would have been spilled abroad. 
There are fevers and fevers. 

But it was worse — much worse — the strained, eye-shirking 
talk at dinner till the servants had withdrawn, and worst of 
all when Mrs. Jim, who had been on the edge of weeping 
from the soup down, kissed Scott and William, and they 
drank one whole bottle of champagne, hot, because there 
was no ice, and Scott and William sat outside the tent in the 
starlight till Mrs. Jim drove them in for fear of more fever. 

Apropos of these things and some others William said: 
“ Being engaged is abominable, because, you see, one has no 
official position. We must be thankful we’ve lots of things 
to do.” 

“Things to do!” said Jim, when that was reported to him. 
“They’re neither of them any good any more. I can’t get 
five hours’ work a day out of Scott. He’s in the clouds half 
the time.” 

“Oh, but they’re so beautiful to watch, Jimmy. It will 
break my heart when they go. Can’t you do anything for 
him?” 


292 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“I’ve given the Government the impression — at least, 
I hope I have — that he personally conducted the entire 
famine. But all he wants is to get on to the Luni Canal Works, 
and William’s just as bad. Have you ever heard ’em talking 
of barrage and aprons and waste- water? It’s their style of 
spooning, I suppose.” 

Mrs. Jim smiled tenderly. “Ah, that’s in the intervals — 
bless ’em.” 

And so Love ran about the camp unrebuked in broad 
daylight, while men picked up the pieces and put them 
neatly away of the Famine in the Eight Districts. 

******* 

Morning brought the penetrating chill of the Northern 
December, the layers of wood-smoke, the dusty gray-blue 
of the tamarisks, the domes of ruined tombs, and all the 
smell of the white Northern plains, as the mail train ran on 
to the mile-long Sutlej Bridge. William, wrapped in a 
poshteen — a silk-embroidered sheepskin jacket trimmed with 
rough astrakhan — looked out with moist eyes and nostrils 
that dilated joyously. The South of pagodas and palm 
trees, the overpopulated Hindu South, was done with. Here 
was the land she knew and loved, and before her lay the good 
life she understood, among folk of her own caste and mind. 

They were picking them up at almost every station now — 
men and women coming in for the Christmas Week, with 
racquets, with bundles of polo-sticks, with dear and bruised 
cricket-bats, with fox-terriers and saddles. The greater 
part of them wore jackets like William’s, for the Northern 
cold is as little to be trifled with as the Northern heat. And 
William was among them and of them, her hands deep in her 
pockets, her collar turned up over her ears, stamping her feet 
on the platforms as she walked up and down to get warm, 
visiting from carriage to carriage and everywhere being con- 
gratulated. Scott was with the bachelors at the far end 
of the train, where they chaffed him mercilessly about feeding 


293 


WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR 

babies and milking goats; but from time to time lie would 
stroll up to William’s window, and murmur: “Good enough, 
isn’t it?” and William would answer with sighs of pure de- 
light: “Good enough, indeed.” The large open names of 
the home towns were good to listen to. Umballa, Ludianah, 
Phillour, Jullundur, they rang like the coming mar- 
riage-bells in her ears, and William felt deeply and truly 
sorry for all strangers and outsiders — visitors, tourists, and 
those fresh-caught for the service of the country. 

It was a glorious return, and when the bachelors gave 
the Christmas Ball, William was, unofficially, you might say, 
the chief and honored guest among the Stewards, who 
could make things very pleasant for their friends. She and 
Scott danced nearly all the dances together, and sat out the 
rest in the big dark gallery overlooking the superb teak floor, 
where the uniforms blazed, and the spurs clinked, and the 
new frocks and four hundred dancers went round and round 
till the draped flags on the pillars flapped and bellied to the 
whirl of it. 

About midnight half a dozen men who did not care for 
dancing came over from the Club to play “Waits,” and — 
that was a surprise the Stewards had arranged — before any 
one knew what had happened, the band stopped, and hidden 
voices broke into “Good King Wencesiaus,” and William in 
the gallery hummed and beat time with her foot : 

“Mark my footsteps well, my page, 

Tread thou in them boldly. 

Thou shalt feel the winter’s rage 
Freeze thy blood less coldly V* 

“Oh, I hope they are going to give us another! Isn’t it 
pretty, coming out of the dark in that way? Look — look 
down. There’s Mrs. Gregory, wiping her eyes!” 

“It’s like Home, rather,” said Scott. “I remember ” 

“Hsh ! Listen— dear.” And it began again : 

“When shepherds watched their flocks by night — ” 


m 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“A-h-h!” said William, drawing closer to Scott. 

“ All seated on the ground, 

The Angel of the Lord came down. 

And glory shone around. 

‘Fear not,’ said he (for mighty dread 
Had seized their troubled mind) ; 

‘Glad tidings of great joy I bring 
To you and all mankind.’” 


This time it was William that wiped her eyes. 


“THEY” 


( 1904 ) 

THE RETURN OF THE CHILDREN 

Neither the harps nor the crowns amused, nor the cherubs’ dove- winged 
races — *- 

Holding hands forlornly the Children wandered beneath the Dome; 
Plucking the radiant robes of the passers by, and with pitiful faces 
Begging what Princes and Powers refused: — “Ah, please will you let us go 
home?”. 

Over the jeweled floor, nigh weeping, ran to them Mary the Mother, 
Kneeled and caressed and made promise with kisses, and drew them along 
to the gateway — 

Yea, the all-iron unbribable Door which Peter must guard and none other. 
Straightway She took the Keys from his keeping, and opened and freed them 
straightway. 

Then to Her Son, Who had seen and smiled. She said “On the night that I 
bore Thee 

What didst Thou care for a love beyond mine or a heaven that was not my 
arm? 

Didst Thou push from the nipple O child, to hear the angels adore Thee? 
When we two lay in the breath of the kine?” And He said: — “Thou hast 
done no harm.” 

So through the Void the Children ran homeward merrily hand in hand. 
Looking neither to left nor right where the breathless Heavens stood still; 
And the Guards of the Void resheathed their swords, for they heard the 
Command: 

“Shall I that have suffered the children to come to me hold them against 
their will?” 

One view called me to another; one hill top to its fellow, half 
across the county, and since I could answer at no more trouble 
than the snapping forward of a lever, I let the country flow 
under my wheels. The orchid-studded flats of the East 
gave way to the thyme, ilex, and gray grass of the Downs; 

295 


296 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


these again to the rich cornland and fig-trees of the lower 
coast, where you carry the beat of the tide on your left hand 
for fifteen level miles; and when at last I turned inland 
through a huddle of rounded hills and woods I had run myself 
clean out of my known marks. Beyond that precise hamlet 
which stands godmother to the capital of the United States, 
I found hidden villages where bees, the only things awake, 
boomed in eighty-foot lindens that overhung gray Norman 
churches; miraculous brooks diving under stone bridges 
built for heavier traffic than would ever vex them again; 
tithe-barns larger than their churches, and an old smithy 
that cried out aloud how it had once been a hall of the Knights 
of the Temple. Gipsies I found on a common where the 
gorse, bracken, and heath fought it out together up a mile of 
Roman road; and a little farther on I disturbed a red fox 
rolling dog-fashion in the naked sunlight. 

As the wooded hills closed about me I stood up in the car 
to take the bearings of that great Down whose ringed head 
is a landmark for fifty miles across the low countries. I 
judged that the lie of the country would bring me across 
some westward-running road that went to his feet, but I did 
not allow for the confusing veils of the woods. A quick turn 
plunged me first into a green cutting brimful of liquid sun- 
shine, next into a gloomy tunnel where last year’s dead 
leaves whispered and scuffled about my tires. The strong 
hazel stuff meeting overhead had not been cut for a couple 
of generations at least, nor had any axe helped the moss- 
cankered oak and beech to spring above them. Here the 
road changed frankly into a carpeted ride on whose brown 
velvet spent primrose-clumps showed like jade, and a few 
sickly, white-stalked bluebells nodded together. As the 
slope favored I shut off the power and slid over the whirled 
leaves, expecting every moment to meet a keeper; but I only 
heard a jay, far off, arguing against the silence under the 
twilight of the trees. 

Still the track descended. I was on the point of reversing 
and working my way back on the second speed ere I ended 


“THEY” 


297 


in some swamp, when I saw sunshine through the tangle 
ahead and lifted the brake. 

It was down again at once. As the light beat across my 
face my fore-wheels took the turf of a great still lawn from 
which sprang horsemen ten feet high with leveled lances, 
monstrous peacocks, and sleek round-headed maids of honor 
— blue, black, and glistening — all of clipped yew. Across 
the lawn — the marshaled woods besieged it on three sides — 
stood an ancient house of lichened and weather-worn stone, 
with mullioned windows and roofs of rose-red tile. It was 
flanked by semi-circular walls, also rose-red, that closed the 
lawn on the fourth side, and at their feet a box hedge grew 
man-high. There were doves on the roof about the slim 
brick chimneys, and I caught a glimpse of an octagonal 
dove-house behind the screening wall. 

Here, then, I stayed; a horseman’s green spear laid at my 
breast; held by the exceeding beauty of that jewel in that 
setting. 

“if i am not packed off for a trespasser, or if this knight 
does not ride a wallop at me,” thought I, “Shakespeare and 
Queen Elizabeth at least must come out of that half-open 
garden door and ask me to tea.” 

A child appeared at an upper window, and I thought 
the little thing waved a friendly hand. But it was to call a 
companion, for presently another bright head showed. Then 
I heard a laugh among the yew-peacocks, and turning to make 
sure (till then I had been watching the house only) I saw the 
silver of a fountain behind a hedge thrown up against the sun. 
The doves on the roof cooed to the cooing water; but be- 
tween the two notes I caught the utterly happy chuckle of a 
child absorbed in some light mischief. 

The garden door — heavy oak sunk deep in the thickness 
of the wall — opened further: a woman in a big garden hat set 
her foot slowly on the time-hollowed stone step and as slowly 
walked across the turf. I was forming some apology when 
she lifted up her head and I saw that she was blind. 

“ I heard you,” she said. “ Isn’t that a motor car? ” 


298 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake in my road. I should 
have turned off up above — I never dreamed ” I began. 

“But I’m very glad. Fancy a motor car coming into the 

garden! It will be such a treat ” She turned and 

made as though looking about her. “You — you haven’t 
seen any one have you — perhaps?” 

“No one to speak to, but the children seemed interested 
at a distance.” 

“Which?” 

“I saw a couple up at the window just now, and I think 
I heard a little chap in the grounds.” 

“Oh, lucky you!” she cried, and her face brightened. “I 
hear them, of course, but that’s all. You’ve seen them and 
heard them?” 

“Yes,” I answered. “And if I know anything of children 
one of them’s having a beautiful time by the fountain yonder. 
Escaped, I should imagine.” 

“You’re fond of children?” 

I gave her one or two reasons why I did not altogether 
hate them. 

“Of course, of course,” she said. “Then you understand. 
Then you won’t think it foolish if I ask you to take your car 
through the gardens, once or twice — quite slowly. I’m sure 
they’d like to see it. They see so little, poor things. One 

tries to make their life pleasant, but ” she threw out her 

hands toward the woods. “We’re so out of the world here.” 

“That will be splendid,” I said. “But I can’t cut up 
your grass.” 

She faced to the right. “Wait a minute,” she said. “We’re 
at the South gate, aren’t we? Behind those peacocks there’s 
a flagged path. We call it the Peacock’s Walk. You can’t 
see it from here, they tell me, but if you squeeze along by the 
edge of the wood you can turn at the first peacock and get on 
to the flags.” 

It was sacrilege to wake that dreaming house-front with the 
clatter of machinery, but I swung the car to clear the turf, 
brushed along the edge of the wood and turned in on the 


“THEY” 299 

broad stone path where the fountain-basin lay like one star- 
sapphire. 

“ May I come too ? ” she cried. “No, please don’t help me. 
They’ll like it better if they see me.” 

She felt her way lightly to the front of the car, and with 
one foot on the step she called: “Children, oh, children! 
Look and see what’s going to happen ! ” r 

The voice would have drawn lost souls from the Pit, for 
the yearning that underlay its sweetness, and I was not sur- 
prised to hear an answering shout behind the yews. It 
must have been the child by the fountain, but he fled at our 
approach, leaving a little toy boat in the water. I saw the 
glint of his blue blouse among the still horsemen. 

Very disposedly we paraded the length of the walk and at 
her request backed again. This time the child had got the 
better of his panic, but stood far off and doubting. 

“The little fellow’s watching us,” I said. “I wonder if 
he’d like a ride.” 

“They’re very shy still. Very shy. But, oh, lucky you 
to be able to see them! Let’s listen.” 

I stopped the machine at once, and the humid stillness, 
heavy with the scent of box, cloaked us deep. Shears I 
could hear where some gardener was clipping; a mumble of 
bees and broken voices that might have been the doves. 

“Oh, unkind!” she said, weariedly. 

“Perhaps they’re only shy of the motor. The little maid at 
the window looks tremendously interested.” 

“Yes?” She raised her head. “It was wrong of me to 
say that. They are really fond of me. It’s the only thing 
that makes life worth living — when they’re fond of you, isn’t 
it? I daren’t think what the place would be without them. 
By the way, is it beautiful?” 

“I think it is the most beautiful place I have ever seen.” 

“So they all tell me. I can feel it, of course, but that isn’t 
quite the same thing.” 

“Then have you never ?” I began, but stopped 

abashed. 


300 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“Not since I can remember. It happened when I was 
only a few months old, they tell me. And yet I must remem- 
ber something, else how could I dream about colors. I see 
light in my dreams, and colors, but I never see them. I 
only hear them just as I do when I’m awake.” , 

“It’s difficult to see faces in dreams. Some people can 
but most of us haven’t the gift,” I went on, looking up at the 
window where the child stood all but hidden. 

“I’ve heard that too,” she said. “And they tell me that 
one never sees a dead person’s face in a dream. Is that 
true?” 

“I believe it is — now I come to think of it.” 

“But how is it with yourself — yourself?” The blind eyes 
turned toward me. 

“I have never seen the faces of my dead in any dream,” I 
answered. 

“Then it must be as bad as being blind.” 

The sun had dipped behind the woods and the long shades 
were possessing the insolent horsemen one by one. I saw 
the light die from off the top of a glossy -leaved lance and all 
the brave hard green turn to soft black. The house, accept- 
ing another day at end, as it had accepted an hundred thou- 
sand gone, seemed to settle deeper into its rest among the 
shadows. 

“Have you ever wanted to?” she said after the silence. 

“Very much sometimes,” I replied. The child had left the 
window as the shadows closed upon it. 

“Ah! So’ve I, but I don’t suppose it’s allowed. . . . 

Where d’you live?” 

“Quite the other side of the county — sixty miles and more, 
and I must be going back. I’ve come without my big lamp.” 

“ But it’s not dark yet. I can feel it.” 

“ I’m afraid it will be by the time I get home. Could you 
lend me someone to set me on my road at first? I’ve utterly 
lost myself.” 

“I’ll send Madden with you to the cross-roads. We are 
so out of the world, I don’t wonder you were lost ! I’ll guide 


“THEY” 


301 


you round to the front of the house; but you will go slowly, 
won’t you, till you’re out of the grounds? It isn’t foolish, 
do you think?” 

“I promise you I’ll go like this,” I said, and let the car 
start herself down the flagged path. 

We skirted the left wing of the house, whose elaborately 
cast lead guttering alone was worth a day’s journey; 
passed under a great rose-grown gate in the red wall, and so 
round to the high front of the house which in beauty (and 
stateliness as much excelled the back as that all others I had 
seen. 

“Is it so very beautiful? ” she said wistfully when she heard 
my raptures. “And you like the lead-figures too? There’s 
the old azalea garden behind. They say that this place must 
have been made for children. Will you help me out, please? 
I should like to come with you as far as the cross-roads, but 
I mustn’t leave them. Is that you, Madden? I want you 
to show this gentleman the way to the cross-roads. He 
has lost his way but — he has seen them.” 

A butler appeared noiselessly at the miracle of old oak that 
must be called the front door, and slipped aside to put on his 
hat. She stood looking at me with open blue eyes in which 
no sight lay, and I saw for the first time that she was beauti- 
ful. 

“Remember,” she said quietly, “if you are fond of them 
you will come again,” and disappeared within the house. 

The butler in the car said nothing till we were nearly at 
the lodge gates, where catching a glimpse of a blue blouse 
in a shrubbery I swerved amply lest the devil that leads little 
boys to play should drag me into child-murder. 

“Excuse me,” he asked of a sudden, “but why did you do 
that, Sir?” 

“The child yonder.” 

“Our young gentleman in blue?” 

“Of course.” 

“He runs about a good deal. Did you see him by the 
fountain, Sir?” 


302 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“Oh, yes, several times. Do we turn here?” 

“Yes, Sir. And did you ’appen to see them upstairs too? ” 

“At the upper window? Yes.” 

“Was that before the mistress come out to speak to you, 
Sir?” 

“A little before that. Why d’you want to know?” 

He paused a little. “Only to make sure that — that they 
had seen the car, Sir, because with children running about, 
though I’m sure you’re driving particularly careful, there 
might be an accident. That was all, Sir. Here are the 
cross-roads. You can’t miss your way from now on. Thank 
you, Sir, but that isn’t our custom, not with ” 

“I beg your pardon,” I said, and thrust away the British 
silver. 

“Oh, it’s quite right with the rest of ’em as a rule. Good- 
bye, Sir.” 

He retired into the armor-plated conning tower of his 
caste and walked away. Evidently a butler solicitous for 
the honor of his house, and interested, probably through a 
maid, in the nursery. 

Once beyond the signposts at the cross-roads I looked back, 
but the crumpled hills interlaced so jealously that I could not 
see where the house had lain. When I asked its name at a 
cottage along the road, the fat woman who sold sweetmeats 
there gave me to understand that people with motor cars had 
small right to live — much less to “go about talking like 
carriage folk.” They were not a pleasant-mannered com- 
munity. 

When I retraced my route on the map that evening I was 
little wiser. Hawkin’s Old Farm appeared to be the survey 
title of the place, and the old County Gazetteer, generally so 
ample, did not allude to it. The big house of those parts 
was Hodnington Hall, Georgian with early Victorian em- 
bellishments, as an atrocious steel engraving attested. I 
carried my difficulty to a neighbor — a deep-rooted tree of 
that soil — and he gave me a name of a family which con- 
veyed no meaning. 


“THEY” 


303 


A month or so later — I went again, or it may have been 
that my car took the road of her own volition. She over-ran 
the fruitless Downs, threaded every turn of the maze of lanes 
below the hills, drew through the high- walled woods, impene- 
trable in their full leaf, came out at the cross-roads where the 
butler had left me, and a little farther on developed an inter- 
nal trouble which forced me to turn her in on a grass way- 
waste that cut into a summer-silent hazel wood. So far as I 
could make sure by the sun and a six-inch Ordnance map, this 
should be the road flank of that wood which I had first ex- 
plored from the heights above. I made a mighty serious busi- 
ness of my repairs and a glittering shop of my repair kit, 
spanners, pump, and the like, which I spread out orderly upon 
a rug. It was a trap to catch all childhood, for on such a day, 
I argued, the children would not be far off. When I paused 
in my work I listened, but the wood was so full of the noises 
of summer (though the birds had mated) that I could not 
at first distinguish these from the tread of small cautious feet 
stealing across the dead leaves. I rang my bell in an alluring 
manner, but the feet fled, and I repented, for to a child a 
sudden noise is very real terror. I must have been at work 
half an hour when I heard in the wood the voice of the blind 
woman crying: “Children, oh children, where are you?” and 
the stillness made slow to close on the perfection of that cry. 
She came toward me, half feeling her way between the tree- 
boles, and though a child it seemed clung to her skirt, it 
swerved into the leafage like a rabbit as she drew nearer. 

“Is that you?” she said, “from the other side of the 
county?” 

“Yes, it’s me from the other side of the county.” 

“Then why didn’t you come through the upper woods? 
They were there just now.” 

“They were here a few minutes ago. I expect they knew 
my car had broken down, and came to see the fun.” 

“Nothing serious, I hope? How do cars break down? ” 

“In fifty different ways. Only mine has chosen the fifty- 
first.” 


304 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


She laughed merrily at the tiny joke, cooed with delicious 
laughter, and pushed her hat back. 

“ Let me hear, ’ ’ she said. ! ' w : ’l t* 

“Wait a moment,” I cried, “and I’ll get you a cushion.” 

She set her foot on the rug all covered with spare parts, 
and stooped above it eagerly. “What delightful things!” 
The hands through which she saw glanced in the checkered 
sunlight. “A box here — another box! Why you’ve ar- 
ranged them like playing shop ! ” 

“I confess now that I put it out to attract them. I don’t 
need half those things really.” 

“How nice of you! I heard your bell in the upper wood. 
You say they were here before that?” 

^‘I’m sure of it. Why are they so shy? That little fellow 
in blue who was with you just now ought to have got over his 
fright. He’s been watching me like a Red Indian.” 

“It must have been your bell,” she said. “I heard one of 
them go past me in trouble when I was coming down. They’re 
shy — so shy even with me.” She turned her face over her 
shoulder and cried again: “Children! Oh, children! Look 
and see ! ” 

“They must have gone off together on their own affairs,”, 
I suggested, for there was a murmur behind us of lowered 
voices broken by the sudden squeaking giggles of childhood. 
I returned to my tinkerings and she leaned forward, her chin 
on her hand, listening interestedly. 

“How many are they?” I said at last. The work was 
finished, but I saw no reason to go. 

Her forehead puckered a little in thought. “I don’t quite 
know,” she said simply. “ Sometimes more — sometimes less. 
They come and stay with me because I love them, you 
see.” 

“That must be very jolly,” I said, replacing a drawer, 
and as I spoke I heard the inanity of my answer. 

“You — you aren’t laughing at me,” she cried. “I — I 
haven’t any of my own. I never married. People laugh 
at me sometimes about them because — because ” 


“THEY” 


305 


“Because they’re savages,” I returned. “It’s nothing to 
fret for. That sort laugh at everything that isn’t in their 
own fat lives.” 

“I don’t know. How should I? I only don’t like being 
laughed at about them. It hurts; and when one can’t see. . . 
I don’t want to seem silly,” her chin quivered like a child’s 
as she spoke, “but we blindies have only one skin, I think. 
Everything outside hits straight at our souls. It’s different 
with you. You’ve such good defences in your eyes — look- 
ing out — before any one can really pain you in your soul. Peo- 
ple forget that with us.” 

I was silent reviewing that inexhaustible matter — the more 
than inherited (since it is also carefully taught) brutality of 
the Christian peoples, beside which the mere heathendom of 
the West Coast nigger is clean and restrained. It led me a 
long distance into myself. 

“Don’t do that!” she said of a sudden, putting her hands 
before her eyes. 

“What?” 

She made a gesture with her hand. 

“That! It’s — it’s all purple and black. Don’t! That 
color hurts.” 

“But, how in the world do you know about colors?” 
I exclaimed, for here was a revelation indeed. 

“Colors as colors?” she asked. 

“No. Those Colors which you saw just now.” 

“You know as well as I do,” she laughed, “else you 
wouldn’t have asked that question. They aren’t in the 
world at all. They’re in you — when you went so angry.” 

“D’you mean a dull purplish patch, like port wine mixed 
with ink?” I said. 

“I’ve never seen ink or port wine, but the colors aren’t 
mixed. They are separate — all separate.” 

“Do you mean black streaks and jags across the purple? ” 

She nodded. “Yes — if they are like this,” and zigzagged 
her finger again, “but it’s more red than purple that bad 
color.” 


306 STORIES FROM KIPLING 

“And what are the colors at the top of the — whatever 
you see?” 

Slowly she leaned forward and traced on the rug the figure 
of the Egg itself. 

“I see them so,” she said, pointing with a grass stem, 
“white, green, yellow, red, purple, and when people are 
angry or bad, black across the red — as you were just now.” 

“Who told you anything about it — in the beginning?” I 
demanded. 

“About the colors? No one. I used to ask what colors 
were when I was little — in table-covers and curtains and 
carpets, you see — because some colors hurt me and some 
made me happy. People told me; and when I got older that 
was how I saw people.” Again she traced the outline of the 
Egg which it is given to very few of us to see. 

“All by yourself?” I repeated. 

“All by myself. The rewasn’t any one else. I only found 
out afterwards that other people did not see the Colors.” 

She leaned against the tree-bole plaiting and unplaiting 
chance-plucked grass stems. The children in the wood had 
drawn nearer. I could see them with the tail of my eye 
frolicking like squirrels. 

“Now I am sure you will never laugh at me,” she went 
on after a long silence. “Nor at them” 

“Goodness! No!’’ I cried, jolted out of my train of 
thought. “A man who laughs at a child — unless the child 
is laughing too — is a heathen ! ” 

“I didn’t mean that of course. You’d never laugh at 
children, but I thought — I used to think — that perhaps you 
might laugh about them. So now I beg your pardon. . . . 
What are you going to laugh at? ” 

I had made no sound, but she knew. 

“At the notion of your begging my pardon. If you had 
done your duty as a pillar of the state and a landed pro- 
prietress you ought to have summoned me for trespass when 
I barged through your woods the other day . It was disgrace- 
ful of me — inexcusable.” 


“THEY” 


307 


She looked at me, her head against the tree trunk — long 
and steadfastly — this woman who could see the naked soul. 

“ How curious,” she half whispered. “ How very curious.” 

“Why, what have I done?” 

“You don’t understand . . . and yet you understood 
about the Colors. Don’t you understand?” 

She spoke with a passion that nothing had justified, and I 
faced her bewilderedly as she rose. The children had gath- 
ered themselves in a roundel behind a bramble bush. One 
sleek head bent over something smaller, and the set of the 
little shoulders told me that fingers were on lips. They, too, 
had some child’s tremendous secret. I alone was hopelessly 
astray there in the broad sunlight. 

“No,” I said, and shook my head as though the dead eyes 
could note. “Whatever it is, I don’t understand yet. Per- 
haps I shall later — if you’ll let me come again.” 

“You will come again,” she answered. “You will surely 
come again and walk in the wood.” 

“Perhaps the children will know me well enough by that 
time to let me play with them — as a favor. You know 
what children are like.” 

“It isn’t a matter of favor but of right,” she replied, and 
while I wondered what she meant, a disheveled woman 
plunged round the bend of the road, loose-haired, purple, 
almost lowing with agony as she ran. It was my rude, fat 
friend of the sweetmeat shop. The blind woman heard and 
stepped forward. “ What is it, Mrs. Madehurst? ” she asked. 

The woman flung her apron over her head and literally 
groveled in the dust, crying that her grandchild was sick to 
death, that the local doctor was away fishing, that Jenny 
the mother was at her wits’ end, and so forth, with repeti- 
tions and bellowings. 

“Where’s the next nearest doctor?” I asked between 
paroxysms. 

“Madden will tell you. Go round to the house and take 
him with you. I’ll attend to this. Be quick!” She half- 
supported the fat woman into the shade. In two minutes 


S08 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


I was blowing all the horns of Jericho under the front of the 
House Beautiful, and Madden, in the pantry, rose to the 
crisis like a butler and a man. 

A quarter of an hour at illegal speeds caught us a doctor 
five miles away. Within the half-hour we had decanted him, 
much interested in motors, at the door of the sweetmeat 
shop, and drew up the road to await the verdict. 

“Useful things, cars,” said Madden, all man and no butler. 
“If I'd had one when mine took sick she wouldn’t have died.” 

“How was it?” I asked. 

“Croup. Mrs. Madden was away. No one knew what 
to do. I drove eight miles in a tax cart for the doctor. She 
was choked when we came back. This car’d ha’ saved her. 
She’d have been close on ten now.” 

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I thought you were rather fond of 
children from what you told me going to the cross-roads the 
other day.” 

“Have you seen ’em again, Sir — this mornin’?” 

“Yes, but they’re well broke to cars. I couldn’t get any 
of them within twenty yards of it.” 

He looked at me carefully as a scout considers a stranger — 
not as a menial should lift his eyes to his divinely appointed 
superior. 

“I wonder why,” he said just above the breath that he 
drew. 

We waited on. A light wind from the sea wandered up 
and down the long lines of the woods, and the wayside 
grasses, whitened already with summer dust, rose and bowed 
in sallow waves. 

A woman, wiping the suds off her arms, came out of the 
cottage next the sweetmeat shop. 

“I’ve be’n listenin’ in de back-yard,” she said cheerily. 
“He says Arthur’s unaccountable bad. Did ye hear him 
shruck just now? Unaccountable bad. I reckon t’will 
come Jenny’s turn to walk in de wood nex’ week along, Mr. 
Madden.” 

“Excuse me, Sir, but your lap-robe is slipping,” said Mad- 


“THEY” 309 

den deferentially. The woman started, dropped a curtsey, 
and hurried away. 

“What does she mean by ‘walking in the wood’?” I 
asked. 

“It must be some saying they use hereabouts. I’m from 
Norfolk myself,” said Madden. “They’re an independent 
lot in this county. She took you for a chauffeur, Sir.” 

I saw the Doctor come out of the cottage followed by 
a draggle-tailed wench who clung to his arm as though he 
could make treaty for her with Death. “Dat sort,” she 
wailed — “dey’re just as much to us dat has ’em as if dey was 
lawful born. Just as much — just as much! An’ God he’d 
be just as pleased if you saved ’un, Doctor. Don’t take it 
from me. Miss Florence will tell ye de very same. Don’t 
leave ’im, Doctor!” 

“I know. I know,” said the man, “but he’ll be quiet for 
a while now. We’ll get the nurse and the medicine as fast 
as we can.” He signaled me to come forward with the car, 
and I strove not to be privy to what followed; but I saw the 
girl’s face, blotched and frozen with grief, and I felt the hand 
without a ring clutching at my knees when we moved away. 

The Doctor was a man of some humor, for I remember he 
claimed my car under the Oath of iEsculapius, and used it 
and me without mercy. First we convoyed Mrs. Madehurst 
and the blind woman to wait by the sick bed till the nurse 
should come. Next we invaded a neat county town for 
prescriptions (the Doctor said the trouble was cerebro- 
spinal meningitis), and when the County Institute, banked 
and flanked with scared market cattle, reported itself out of 
nurses for the moment we literally flung ourselves loose upon 
the county. We conferred with the owners of great houses — 
magnates at the ends of overarching avenues whose big- 
boned womenfolk strode away from their tea-tables to listen 
to the imperious Doctor. At last a white-haired lady sitting 
under a cedar of Lebanon and surrounded by a court of 
magnificent Borzois — all hostile to motors — gave the Doctor, 
who received them as from a princess, written orders which 


310 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


we bore many miles at top speed, through a park, to a French 
nunnery, where we took over in exchange a pallid-faced and 
trembling Sister. She knelt at the bottom of the tonneau 
telling her beads without pause till, by short cuts of the Doc- 
tor’s invention, we had her to the sweetmeat shop once more. 
It was a long afternoon crowded with mad episodes that rose 
and dissolved like the dust of our wheels; cross-sections of 
remote and incomprehensible lives through which we raced 
at right angles; and I went home in the dusk, wearied out, to 
dream of the clashing horns of cattle; round-eyed nuns walk- 
ing in a garden of graves; pleasant tea-parties beneath shaded 
trees; the carbolic-scented, gray-painted corridors of the 
County Institute; the steps of shy children in the wood, and 
the hands that clung to my knees as the motor began to move. 

I had intended to return in a day or two, but it pleased 
Fate to hold me from that side of the county, on many pre- 
texts, till the elder and the wild rose had fruited. There 
came at last a brilliant day, swept clear from the southwest, 
that brought the hills within hand’s reach — a day of unstable 
airs and high filmy clouds. Through no merit of my own 
I was free, and set the car for the third time on that known 
road. As I reached the crest of the Downs I felt the soft air 
change, saw it glaze under the sun; and, looking down at the 
sea, in that instant beheld the blue of the Channel turn 
through polished silver and dulled steel to dingy pewter. A 
laden collier hugging the coast steered outward for deeper 
water and, across copper-colored haze, I saw sails rise one by 
one on the anchored fishing-fleet. In a deep <lene behind me 
an eddy of sudden wind drummed through sheltered oaks, 
and spun aloft the first day sample of autumn leaves. When 
I reached the beach road the sea-fog fumed over the brick- 
fields, and the tide was telling all the groins of the gale 
beyond Ushant. In less than an hour summer England 
vanished in chill gray. We were again the shut island of the 


THEY ” 


311 


North, all the ships of the world bellowing at our perilous 
gates; and between their outcries ran the piping of bewildered 
gulls. My cap dripped moisture, the folds of the rug held it 
in pools or sluiced it away in runnels, and the salt-rime stuck 
to my lips. 

Inland the smell of autumn loaded the thickened fog among 
the trees, and the drip became a continuous shower. Yet the 
late flowers — mallow of the wayside, scabious of the field, and 
dahlia of the garden — showed gay in the mist, and beyond the 
sea’s breath there was little sign of decay in the leaf. Yet 
in the villages the house doors were all open, and bare-legged, 
bare-headed children sat at ease on the damp doorsteps to 
shout “pip-pip” at the stranger. 

I made bold to call at the sweetmeat shop, where Mrs. 
Madehurst met me with a fat woman’s hospitable tears. 
Jenny’s child, she said, had died two days after the nun had 
come. It was, she felt, best out of the way, even though 
insurance offices, for reasons which she did not pretend to 
follow, would not willingly insure such stray lives. “Not 
but what Jenny didn’t tend to Arthur as though he’d 
come all proper at de end of de first year — like Jenny herself.” 
Thanks to Miss Florence, the child had been buried with a 
pomp which, in Mrs Madehurst’s opinion, more than covered 
the small irregularity of its birth. She described the coffin, 
within and without, the glass hearse, and the evergreen 
lining of the grave. 

“But how’s the mother?” I asked. 

“Jenny? Oh, she’ll get over it. I’ve felt dat way with 
one or two o’ my own. She’ll get over. She’s walkin’ in de 
wood now.” 

“In this weather?” 

Mrs. Madehurst looked at me with narrowed eyes across 
the counter. 

“I dunno but it opens de’ ’eart like. Yes, it opens de 
’eart. Dat’s where losin’ and bearin’ comes so alike in de 
long run, we do say.” 

Now the wisdom of the old wives is greater than that of all 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


312 

the Fathers, and this last oracle sent me thinking so 
extendedly as I went up the road, that I nearly ran over a 
woman and a child at the wooded corner by the lodge 
gates of the House Beautiful. 

“Awful weather!” I cried, as I slowed dead for the turn. 

“Not so bad,” she answered placidly out of the fog. 
“Mine’s used to ’un. You’ll find yours indoors, I reckon.” 

Indoors, Madden received me with professional courtesy, 
and kind inquiries for the health of the motor, which he would 
put under cover. 

I waited in a still, nut-brown hall, pleasant with late flowers 
and warmed with a delicious wood fire — a place of good in- 
fluence and great peace. (Men and women may sometimes, 
after great effort, achieve a creditable lie; but the house, 
which is their temple, cannot say anything save the truth of 
those who have lived in it.) A child’s cart and a doll lay on 
the black-and-white floor, where a rug had been kicked back. 
I felt that the children had only just hurried away — to hide 
themselves, most like — in the many turns of the great adzed 
staircase that climbed statelily out of the hall, or to crouch 
at gaze behind the lions and roses of the carven gallery above. 
Then I heard her voice above me, singing as the blind sing — 
from the soul:— 


In the pleasant orchard-closes. 

And all my early summer came back at the call. 

In the pleasant orchard-closes, 

God bless all our gains say we — 

But may God bless all our losses. 

Better suits with our degree. 

She dropped the marring fifth line, and repeated — 

Better suits with our degree! 

I saw her lean over the gallery, her linked hands white as 
pearl against the oak. 


“THEY” 


313 


“Is that you — from the other side of the county?” she 
called. 

“Yes, me — from the other side of the county,” I answered, 
laughing. 

“What a long time before you had to come here again.” 
She ran down the stairs, one hand lightly touching the broad 
rail. “It’s two months and four days. Summer’s gone ! ” 

“I meant to come before, but Fate prevented.” 

“ I knew it. Please do something to that fire. They won’t 
let me play with it, but I can feel it’s behaving badly. Hit 
it!” 

I looked on either side of the deep fireplace, and found but 
a half-charred hedge-stake with which I punched a black 
log into flame. 

“It never goes out, day or night,” she said, as though 
explaining. “In case any one comes in with cold toes, you 
see,” 

“It’s even lovelier inside than it was out,” I murmured. 
The red light poured itself along the age-polished dusky 
panels till the Tudor roses and lions of the gallery took color 
and motion. An old eagle-topped convex mirror gathered 
the picture into its mysterious heart, distorting afresh the 
distorted shadows, and curving the gallery lines into the 
curves of a ship. The day was shutting down in half a gale 
as the fog turned to stringy scud. Through the uncurtained 
mullions of the broad window I could see valiant horsemen of 
the lawn rear and recover against the wind that taunted them 
with legions of dead leaves. 

“Yes, it must be beautiful,” she said. “Would you like 
to go over it? There’s still light enough upstairs.” 

I followed her up the unflinching, wagon- wide staircase to 
the gallery whence opened the thin fluted Elizabethan doors. 

“Feel how they put the latch low down for the sake of the 
children.” She swung a light door inward. 

“ By the way, where are they? ” I asked. “ I haven’t even 
heard them to-day.” 

She did not answer at once. Then, “I can only hear 


314 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


them,” she replied softly. “This is one of their rooms — 
everything ready, you see.” 

She pointed into a heavily-timbered room. There were 
little low gate tables and children’s chairs. A doll’s house, 
its hooked front half open, faced a great dappled rocking- 
horse, from whose padded saddle it was but a child’s scramble 
to the broad window-seat overlooking the lawn. A toy gun 
lay in a corner beside a gilt wooden cannon. 

“Surely they’ve only just gone,” I whispered. In the fail- 
ing light a door creaked cautiously. I heard the rustle of a 
frock and the patter of feet — quick feet through a room be- 
yond. 

“I heard that,” she cried triumphantly. “Did you? 
Children, O children, where are you?” 

The voice filled the walls that held it lovingly to the last 
perfect note, but there came no answering shout such as I had 
heard in the garden. We hurried on from room to oak-floored 
room; up a step here, down three steps there; among a maze 
of passages; always mocked by our quarry. One might as 
well have tried to work an unstopped warren with a single 
ferret. There were bolt-holes innumerable — recesses in 
walls, embrasures of deep slitten windows now darkened, 
whence they could start up behind us; and abandoned fire- 
places, six feet deep in the masonry, as well as the tangle of 
communicating doors. Above all, they had the twilight for 
their helper in our game. I had caught one or two joyous 
chuckles of evasion, and once or twice had seen the silhouette 
of a child’s frock against some darkening window at the end 
of a passage; but we returned empty-handed to the gallery, 
just as a middle-aged woman was setting a lamp in its niche. 

“No, I haven’t seen her either this evening, Miss Florence,” 
I heard her say, “ but that Turpin he says he wants to see you 
about his shed.” 

“Oh, Mr. Turpin must want to see me very badly. Tell 
him to come to the hall, Mrs. Madden.” 

I looked down into the hall whose only light was the dulled 
fire, and deep in the shadow I saw them at last. They must 


“THEY” 


315 


have slipped down while we were in the passages, and now 
thought themselves perfectly hidden behind an old gilt 
leather screen. By child’s law, my fruitless chase was as 
good as an introduction, but since I had taken so much 
trouble I resolved to force them to come forward later by the 
simple trick, which children detest, of pretending not to 
notice them. They lay close, in a little huddle, no more than 
shadows except when a quick flame betrayed an outline. 

“And now we’ll have some tea,” she said. “I believe I 
ought to have offered it you at first, but one doesn’t arrive 
at manners somehow when one lives alone and is considered 
— h’m — peculiar.” Then with very pretty scorn, “Would you 
like a lamp to see to eat by?” 

“ The firelight’s much pleasanter, I think.” We descended 
into that delicious gloom and Madden brought tea. 

I took my chair in the direction of the screen ready to sur- 
prise or be surprised as the game should go, and at her per- 
mission, since a hearth is always sacred, bent forward to play 
with the fire. 

“Where do you get these beautiful short faggots from?” 
I asked, idly. “Why, they are tallies!” 

“Of course,” she said. “As I can’t read or write I’m 
driven back on the early English tally for my accounts. 
Give me one and I’ll tell you what it meant.” 

I passed her an unburned hazel-tally, about a foot long, 
and she ran her thumb down the nicks. 

“This is the milk-record for the home farm for the month 
of April last year, in gallons,” said she. “I don’t know what 
I should have done without tallies. An old forester of mine 
taught me the system. It’s out of date now for everyone 
else; but my tenants respect it. One of them’s coming now 
to see me. Oh, it doesn’t matter. He has no business here 
out of office hours. He’s a greedy, ignorant man— very greedy 
or — he wouldn’t come here after dark.” 

“Have you much land then?” 

“Only a couple of hundred acres in hand, thank goodness. 
The other six hundred are nearly all let to folk who knew my 


316 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


folk before me, but this Turpin is quite a new man — and a 
highway robber.” 

“But are you sure I sha’n’t be ?” 

“Certainly not. You have the right. He hasn’t any 
children.” 

“Ah, the children ! ” I said, and slid my low chair back till it 
nearly touched the screen that hid them. “ I wonder whether 
they’ll come out for me.” 

There was a murmur of voices — Madden’s and a deeper 
note — at the low, dark side door, and a ginger-headed, can- 
vas-gaitered giant of the unmistakable tenant farmer type 
stumbled or was pushed in. 

“Come to the fire, Mr. Turpin,” she said. 

“If — if you please, Miss, I’ll — I’ll be quite as well by the 
door.” He clung to the latch as he spoke like a frightened 
child. Of a sudden I realized that he was in the grip of some 
almost overpowering fear. 

“Well?” 

“About that new shed for the young stock — that was all. 
These first autumn storms settin’ in . . . but I’ll come 

again, Miss.” His teeth did not chatter much more than 
the door latch. 

“I think not,” she answered, levelly. “The new shed — 
m’m. What did my agent write you on the 15th?” 

“I — fancied p’raps that if I came to see you — ma — man to 
man like, Miss. But ” 

His eyes rolled into every corner of the room wide with 
horror. He half opened the door through which he had 
entered, but I noticed it shut again — from without and 
firmly. 

“He wrote what I told him,” she went on. “You are 
overstocked already. Dunnett’s Farm never carried more 
than fifty bullocks — even in Mr. Wright’s time. And he used 
cake. You’ve sixty-seven and you don’t cake. You’ve 
broken the lease in that respect. You’re dragging the heart 
out of the farm.” 

“I’m — I’m getting some minerals — superphosphates — next 


“THEY” 


317 


week. I’ve as good as ordered a truck-load already. I’ll 
go down to the station to-morrow about ’em. Then I can 
come and see you man to man like, Miss, in the daylight. . . . 
That gentleman’s not going away, is he?” He almost 
shrieked. 

I had only slid the chair a little farther back, reaching 
behind me to tap on the leather of the screen, but he jumped 
like a rat. 

“No. Please attend to me, Mr. Turpin.” She turned 
in her chair and faced him with his back to the door. It was 
an old and sordid little piece of scheming that she forced 
from him — his plea for the new cowshed at his landlady’s 
expense, that he might with the covered manure pay his 
next year’s rent out of the valuation after, as she made clear, 
he had bled the enriched pastures to the bone. I could not 
but admire the intensity of his greed, when I saw him out- 
facing for its sake whatever terror it was that ran wet on his 
forehead. 

I ceased to tap the leather — was, indeed, calculating the 
cost of the shed — when I felt my relaxed hand taken and 
turned softly between the soft hands of a child. So at last 
I had triumphed. In a moment I would turn and acquaint 
myself with those quick-footed wanderers. . . . 

The little brushing kiss fell in the center of my palm — as 
a gift on which the fingers were, once, expected to close: as 
the all-faithful half-reproachful signal of a waiting child not 
used to neglect even when grown-ups were busiest — a frag- 
ment of the mute code devised very long ago. 

Then I knew. And it was as though I had known from the 
first day when I looked across the lawn at the high window. 

I heard the door shut. The woman turned to me in silence, 
and I felt that she knew. 

What time passed after this I cannot say. I was roused by 
the fall of a log, and mechanically rose to put it back. Then 
I returned to my place in the chair very close to the screen. 

“Now you understand,” she whispered, across the packed 
shadows. 


318 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“Yes, I understand — now. Thank you.” 

“ I — I only hear them.” She bowed her head in her hands. 
“I have no right, you know — no other right. I have neither 
borne nor lost — neither borne nor lost!” 

“Be very glad then,” said I, for my soul was torn open 
within me. 

“Forgive me!” 

She was still, and I went back to my sorrow and my joy. 

“It was because I loved them so,” she said at last, 
brokenly. “ That was why it was, even from the first — even 
before I knew that they — they were all I should ever have. 
And I loved them so!” 

She stretched out her arms to the shadows and the shadows 
within the shadow. 

“They came because I loved them — because I needed 
them. I — I must have made them come. Was that wrong, 
think you?” 

“No— no.” 

“I — I grant you that the toys and — and all that sort of 
thing were nonsense, but — but I used to so hate empty rooms 
myself when I was little.” She pointed to the gallery. 
“And the passages all empty. . . . And how could 1 

ever bear the garden door shut? Suppose ” 

“Don’t! For pity’s sake, don’t!” I cried. The twilight 
had brought a cold rain with gusty squalls that plucked at the 
leaded windows. 

“ And the same thing with keeping the fire in all night. 1 
don’t think it so foolish — do you?” 

I looked at the broad brick hearth, saw, through tears I 
believe, that there was no unpassable iron on or near it, and 
bowed my head. 

“I did all that and lots of other things — just to make 
believe. Then they came. I heard them, but I didn’t know 
that they were not mine by right till Mrs. Madden told 
me ” 

“The butler’s wife? What?” 

“One of them — I heard — she saw. And knew. Hers! 


“THEY” 


319 


Not for me. I didn’t know at first. Perhaps I was jealous. 
Afterwards, I began to understand that it was only because 

I loved them, not because . . . Oh, you must bear 

or lose,” she said piteously. “There is no other way — and 
yet they love me. They must ! Don’t they ? ” 

There was no sound in the room except the lapping voices 
of the fire, but we two listened intently, and she at least took 
comfort from what she heard. She recovered herself and 
half rose. I sat still in my chair by the screen. 

“Don’t think me a wretch to whine about myself like this, 
but — but I’m all in the dark, you know, and you can see.” 

In truth I could see, and my vision confirmed me in my 
resolve, though that was like the very parting of spirit and 
flesh. Yet a little longer I would stay since it was the last 
time. 

“You think it is wrong, then?” she cried, sharply enough. 
I had said nothing. 

“Not for you. A thousand times no. For you it is 
right. ... I am grateful to you beyond words. For 
me it would be wrong. For me only. . . .” 

“Why?” she said, but passed her hand before her face as 
she had done at our second meeting in the wood. “Oh, I 
see,” she went on simply as a child. “For you it would be 
wrong.” Then with a little indrawn laugh, “and, d’you 
remember, I called you lucky — once — at first. You who 
must never come here again!” 

She left me to sit a little longer by the screen, and I heard 
the sound of her feet die out along the gallery above. 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 
( 1905 ) 

My friend, if cause doth wrest thee. 

Ere folly hath much oppressed thee. 

Far from acquaintance kest thee 
Where country may digest thee . . . 

Thank God that so hath blessed thee. 

And sit down, Robin, and rest thee. 

Thomas Tusser. 

It came without warning, at the very hour his hand was out- 
stretched to crumple the Holz and Gunsberg Combine. The 
New York doctors called it overwork, and he lay in a dark- 
ened room, one ankle crossed above the other, tongue pressed 
into palate, wondering whether the next brain-surge of 
prickly fires would drive his soul from all anchorages. At 
last they gave judgment. With care he might in two years 
return to the arena, but for the present he must go across the 
water and do no work whatever. He accepted the terms. 
It was capitulation; but the Combine that had shivered be- 
neath his knife gave him all the honors of war. Gunsberg 
himself, full of condolences, came to the steamer and filled 
the Chapins’ suite of cabins with overwhelming flower- 
works. 

“Smilax,” said George Chapin when he saw them. “Fitz 
is right. I’m dead; only I don’t see why he left out the 
‘In Memoriam’ on the ribbons!” 

“Nonsense!” his wife answered, and poured him his 
tincture. “You’ll be back before you can think.” 

He looked at himself in the mirror, surprised that his face 
had not been branded by the hells of the past three months. 
The noise of the decks worried him, and he lay down, his 
tongue only a little pressed against his palate. 

An hour later he said: “Sophie, I feel sorry about taking 
320 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 


321 


you away from everything like this. I — I suppose we’re the 
two loneliest people on God’s earth to-night.” 

Said Sophie his wife, and kissed him: “Isn’t it something 
to you that we’re going together?” 

They drifted about Europe for months — sometimes alone, 
sometimes with chance-met gipsies of their own land. From 
the North Cape to the Blue Grotto at Capri they wandered, 
because the next steamer headed that way, or because some- 
one had set them on the road. The doctors had warned 
Sophie that Chapin was not to take interest even in other 
men’s interests; but a familiar sensation at the back of the 
neck after one hour’s keen talk with a Nauheimed railway 
magnate saved her any trouble. He nearly wept. 

“And I’m over thirty,” he cried. “With all I meant to 
do!” 

“Let’s call it a honeymoon,” said Sophie. “D’you know, 
in all the six years we’ve been married, you’ve never told me 
what you meant to do with your life?” 

“With my life? What’s the use? It’s finished now.” 
Sophie looked up quickly from the Bay of Naples. “As far 
as my business goes, I shall have to live on my rents like that 
architect at San Moritz.” 

“You’ll get better if you don’t worry; and even if it takes 

time, there are worse things than How much have 

you?” 

“Between four and five million. But it isn’t the money. 
You know it isn’t. It’s the principle. How could you re- 
spect me? You never did, the first year after we married, 
till I went to work like the others. Our tradition and up- 
bringing are against it. We can’t accept those ideals.” 

“Well, I suppose I married you for some sort of ideal,” 
she answered, and they returned to their forty-third 
hotel. 

In England they missed the alien tongues of Continental 
streets that reminded them of their own polyglot cities. In 


322 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


England all men spoke one tongue, speciously like American 
to the ear, but on cross-examination unintelligible. 

“Ah, but you have not seen England,” said a lady with 
iron-gray hair. They had met her in Vienna, Bayreuth, and 
Florence, and were grateful to find her again at Claridge’s, for 
she commanded situations, and knew where prescriptions are 
most carefully made up. “You ought to take an interest in 
the home of our ancestors — as I do.” 

“I’ve tried for a week, Mrs. Shonts,” said Sophie, “but I 
never get any further than tipping German waiters.” 

“These men are not the true type,” Mrs. Shonts went on. 
“I know where you should go.” 

Chapin pricked up his ears, anxious to run anywhere from 
the streets on which quick men, something of his kidney, did 
the business denied to him. 

“We hear and we obey, Mrs. Shonts,” said Sophie, feeling 
his unrest as he drank the loathed British tea. 

Mrs. Shonts smiled, and took them in hand. She wrote 
widely and telegraphed far on their behalf till, armed with 
her letter of introduction, she drove them into that wilderness 
which is reached from an ash-barrel of a station called Char- 
ing Cross. They were to go to Rocketts — the farm of one 
Cloke, in the southern counties — where, she assured them, 
they would meet the genuine England of folklore and song. 

Rocketts they found after some hours, four miles from a 
station, and, so far as they could judge in the bumpy darkness, 
twice as many from a road. Trees, kine, and the outlines of 
barns showed shadowy about them when they alighted, and 
Mr. and Mrs. Cloke, at the open door of a deep stone-floored 
kitchen, made them shyly welcome. They lay in an attic 
beneath a wavy whitewashed ceiling, and because it rained, 
a wood fire was made in an iron basket on a brick hearth, and 
they fell asleep to the chirping of mice and the whimper of 
flames. 

When they woke it was a fair day, full of the noises of birds, 
the smell of box lavender, and fried bacon, mixed with an 
elemental smell they had never met before. 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 


323 


“This,” said Sophie, nearly pushing out the thin casement 
in an attempt to see round the corner, “is — what did the 
hack — cabman say to the railway porter about my trunk — 
‘quite on the top’?” 

“No; ‘a little bit of all right.’ I feel farther away from 
anywhere than I’ve ever felt in my life. We must find out 
where the telegraph office is.” 

“Who cares?” said Sophie, wandering about, hair-brush in 
hand, to admire the illustrated weekly pictures pasted on 
door and cupboard. 

But there was no rest for the alien soul till he had made 
sure of the telegraph office. He asked the Clokes’s daugh- 
ter, laying breakfast, while Sophie plunged her face in the 
lavender bush outside the low window. 

“Go to the stile a-top o’ the Barn field,” said Mary, “and 
look across Pardons to the next spire. It’s directly under. 
You can’t miss it — not if you keep to the footpath. My 
sister’s the telegraphist there. But you’re in the three-mile 
radius, sir. The boy delivers telegrams directly to this door 
from Pardons village.” 

“One has to take a good deal on trust in this country,” he 
murmured. 

Sophie looked at the close turf, scarred only with last 
night’s wheels, at two ruts which wound round a rickyard, 
and at the circle of still orchard about the half-timbered 
house. 

“What’s the matter with it?” she said. “Telegrams de- 
livered to the Vale of Avalon, of course,” and she beckoned 
in an earnest-eyed hound of engaging manners and no en- 
gagements, who answered, at times, to the name of Rambler. 
He led them, after breakfast, to the rise behind the house 
where the stile stood against the skyline, and, “I wonder 
what we shall find now,” said Sophie, frankly prancing with 
joy on the grass. 

It was a slope of gap-hedged fields possessed to their 
centers by clumps of brambles. Gates were not, and the 
rabbit-mined, cattle-rubbed posts leaned out and in. A 


324 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


narrow path doubled among the bushes, scores of white 
tails twinkled before the racing hound, and a hawk rose, 
whistling shrilly. 

“No roads, no nothing !” said Sophie, her short skirt 
hooked by briers. “I thought all England was a garden. 
There’s your spire, George, across the valley. How curious ! ” 

They walked toward it through an all-abandoned land. 
Here they found the ghost of a patch of lucerne that had re- 
fused to die: there a harsh fallow surrendered to yard-high 
thistles; and here a breadth of rampant kelk feigning to be 
lawful crop. In the ungrazed pastures swaths of dead stuff 
caught their feet, and the ground beneath glistened with 
sweat. At the bottom of the valley a little brook had under- 
mined its footbridge, and frothed in the wreckage. But there 
stood great woods on the slopes beyond — old, tall, and 
brilliant, like unfaded tapestries against the walls of a ruined 
house. 

“All this within a hundred miles of London,” he said. 
“’Looks as if it had had nervous prostration, too.” The 
footpath turned the shoulder of a slope, through a thicket 
of rank rhododendrons, and crossed what had once been a 
carriage drive, which ended in the shadow of two gigantic 
holm-oaks. 

“A house!” said Sophie, in a whisper. “A Colonial 
house!” 

Behind the blue-green of the twin trees rose a dark-bluish 
brick Georgian pile, with a shell-shaped fan-light over its 
pillared door. The hound had gone off on his own foolish 
quests. Except for some stir in the branches and the flight 
of four startled magpies, there was neither life nor sound 
about the square house, but it looked out of its long windows 
most friendlily. 

“Cha-armed to meet you, I’m sure,” said Sophie, and 
curtsied to the ground. “ George, this is history I can under- 
stand. We began here.” She curtsied again. 

The June sunshine twinkled on all the lights. It was as 
though an old lady, wise in three generations’ experience, but 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 325 

for the present sitting out, bent to listen to her flushed and 
eager grandchild. 

“I must look!” Sophie tiptoed to a window, and shaded 
her eyes with her hand. “ Oh, this room’s half -full of cotton- 
bales — wool, I suppose! But I can see a bit of the mantel- 
piece. George, do come! Isn’t that someone?” 

She fell back behind her husband. The front door opened 
slowly, to show the hound, his nose white with milk, in charge 
of an ancient of days clad in a blue linen ephod curiously 
gathered on breast and shoulders. 

“Certainly,” said George, half aloud. “Father Time 
himself. This is where he lives, Sophie.” 

“ We came,” said Sophie weakly. “ Can we see the house? 
I’m afraid that’s our dog.” 

“No, ’tis Rambler,” said the old man. “He’s been at 
my swill-pail again. Staying at Rocketts, be ye? Come in. 
Ah! you runagate!” 

The hound broke from him, and he tottered after him 
down the drive. They entered the hall — just such a high 
light hall as such a house should own. A slim-balustered 
staircase, wide and shallow and once creamy-white, climbed 
out of it under a long oval window. On either side delicately 
moulded doors gave on to wool-lumbered rooms, whose sea- 
green mantelpieces were adorned with nymphs, scrolls, and 
Cupids in low relief. 

“What’s the firm that makes these things?” cried 
Sophie, enraptured. “Oh, I forgot! These must be the 
originals. Adams, is it? I never dreamed of anything 
like that steel-cut fender. Does he mean us to go every- 
where?” 

“He’s catching the dog,” said George, looking out. “We 
don’t count.” 

They explored the first or ground floor, delighted as 
children playing burglars. 

“This is like all England,” she said at last. “Wonderful, 
but no explanation. You’re expected to know it beforehand 
Now, let’s try upstairs.” 


326 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


The stairs never creaked beneath their feet. From the 
broad landing they entered a long, green-paneled room 
lighted by three full-length windows, which overlooked the 
forlorn wreck of a terraced garden, and wooded slopes be- 
yond. 

“The drawing room, of course.” Sophie swam up and 
down it. “That mantelpiece — Orpheus and Eurydice — is 
the best of them all. Isn’t it marvelous? Why, the room 
seems furnished with nothing in it! How’s that, George?” 

“It’s the proportions. I’ve noticed it.” 

“I saw a Heppel white couch once” — Sophie laid her 
finger to her flushed cheek and considered. “With two of 
them — one on each side — you wouldn’t need anything else. 
Except — there must be one perfect mirror over that mantel- 
piece.” 

“Look at that view. It’s a framed Constable,” her hus- 
band cried. 

“No; it’s a Morland — a parody of a Morland. But about 
that couch, George. Don’t you think Empire might be 
better than Heppel white ? Dull gold against that pale green? 
It’s a pity they don’t make spinets nowadays.” 

“ I believe you can get them. Look at that oak wood be- 
hind the pines.” 

“ ‘While you sat and played toccatas stately at the clavi- 
chord,’” Sophie hummed, and, head on one side, nodded to 
where the perfect mirror should hang. 

Then they found bedrooms with dressing rooms and 
powdering-closets, and steps leading up and down — boxes of 
rooms — round, square, and octagonal, with enriched ceilings 
and chased door-locks. 

“ Now about servants. Oh ! ” She had darted up the last 
stairs to the checkered darkness of the top floor, where loose 
tiles lay among broken laths, and the walls were scrawled 
with names, sentiments, and hop records. “They’ve been 
keeping pigeons here,” she cried. 

“And you could drive a buggy through the roof anywhere,” 
said George. 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 327 

“That’s what I say,” the old man cried below them on the 
stairs. “Not a dry place for my pigeons at all.” 

“But why was it allowed to get like this?” said Sophie. 

“ ’Tis with housen as teeth,” he replied. “Let ’em go too 
far, and there’s nothing to be done. Time was they was 
minded to sell her, but none would buy. She was too far 
away along from any place. Time was they’d ha’ lived here 
theyselves, but they took and died.” 

“Here?” Sophie moved beneath the light of a hole in the 
roof. 

“Nah — none dies here excep’ falling off ricks and such. 
In London they died.” He plucked a lock of wool from his 
blue smock. “ They was no staple — neither the Elphicks nor 
the Moones. Shart and brittle all of ’em. Dead they be 
seventeen year, for I’ve been here caretakin’ twenty-five.” 

“Who does all the wool belong to downstairs?” George 
asked. 

“To the estate. I’ll show you the back parts if ye like. 
You’re from America, ain’t ye? I’ve had a son there once 
myself.” They followed him down the main stairway. He 
paused at the turn and swept one hand toward the wall. 
“Plenty room here for your coffin to come down. Seven 
foot and three men at each end wouldn’t brish the paint. If 
I die in my bed they’ll ’ave to up-end me like a milk-can. 
’Tis all luck, d’ye see?” 

He led them on and on, through a maze of back kitchens, 
dairies, larders, and sculleries, that melted along covered ways 
into a farm-house, visibly older than the main building, which 
again rambled out among barns, byres, pig-pens, stalls and 
stables to the dead fields behind. 

“Somehow,” said Sophie, sitting exhausted on an ancient 
well-curb — “somehow one wouldn’t insult these lovely old 
things by filling them with hay.” 

George looked at long stone walls upholding reaches of 
silvery-oak weather-boarding; buttresses of mixed flint 
and bricks; outside stairs, stone upon arched stone; curves 
of thatch where grass sprouted; roundels of house-leeked tiles. 


328 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


and a huge paved yard populated by two cows and the 
repentant Rambler. He had not thought of himself or of the 
telegraph office for two and a half hours. 

“But why,” said Sophie, as they went back through the 
crater of stricken fields, — “why is one expected to know 
everything in England? Why do they never tell?” 

“You mean about the Elphicks and the Moones?” he 
answered. 

“Yes — and the lawyers and the estate. Who are they? 
I wonder whether those painted floors in the green room were 
real oak. Don’t you like us exploring things together — 
better than Pompeii?” 

George turned once more to look at the view. “Eight 
hundred acres go with the house — the old man told me. 
Five farms altogether. Rocketts is one of ’em.” 

“I like Mrs. Cloke. But what is the old house called?” 

George laughed. “That’s one of the things you’re ex- 
pected to know. He never told me.” 

The Clokes were more communicative. That evening and 
thereafter for a week they gave the Chapins the official 
history, as one gives it to lodgers, of Friars Pardon the house 
and its five farms. But Sophie asked so many questions, and 
George was so humanly interested, that, as confidence in the 
strangers grew, they launched, with observed and acquired 
detail, into the lives and deaths and doings of the Elphicks 
and the Moones and their collaterals, the Haylings and the 
Torrells. It was a tale told serially by Cloke in the barn, or 
his wife in the dairy, the last chapters reserved for the kitchen 
o’ nights by the big fire, when the two had been half the day 
exploring about the house, where old Iggulden, of the blue 
smock, cackled and chuckled to see them. The motives that 
swayed the characters were beyond their comprehension ; the 
fates that shifted them were gods they had never met; the 
side-lights Mrs. Cloke threw on act and incident were more 
amazing than anything in the record. Therefore the Chapins 
listened delightedly, and blessed Mrs. Shonts. 

“But why — why — why — did So-and-so do so-and-so?” 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 


329 


Sophie would demand from her seat by the pothook; and Mrs. 
Cloke would answer, smoothing her knees, “For the sake of 
the place.” 

“I give it up,” said George one night in their own room. 
“People don’t seem to matter in this country compared to the 
places they live in. The way she tells it, Friars Pardon was 
a sort of Moloch.” 

“Poor old thing!” They had been walking round the 
farms as usual before tea. “No wonder they loved it. 
Think of the sacrifices they made for it. Jane Elphick 
married the younger Torrell to keep it in the family. The 
octagonal room with the moulded ceiling next to the big bed- 
room was hers. Now what did he tell you while he was feed- 
ing the pigs?” said Sophie. 

“About the Torrell cousins and the uncle who died in Java. 
They lived at Burnt House — behind High Pardons, where 
that brook is all blocked up.” 

“No; Burnt House is under High Pardons Wood, before 
you come to Gale Anstey,” Sophie corrected. 

“Well, old man Cloke said ” 

Sophie threw open the door and called down into the 
kitchen, where the Clokes were covering the fire: “Mrs. 
Cloke, isn’t Burnt House under High Pardons?” 

“Yes, my dear, of course,” the soft voice answered ab- 
sently. A cough. “I beg your pardon, Madam. What 
was it you said?” 

“Never mind. I prefer it the other way,” Sophie laughed, 
and George re-told the missing chapter as she sat on the bed. 

“Here to-day an’ gone to-morrow,” said Cloke warningly. 
“They’ve paid their first month, but we’ve only that Mrs. 
Shonts’s letter for guarantee.” 

“None she sent never cheated us yet. It slipped out be- 
fore I thought. She’s a most humane young lady. They’ll 
be going away in a little. An’ you’ve talked a lot too, Alfred.” 

“ Yes, but the Elphicks are all dead. No one can bring my 
loose talking home to me. But why do they stay on and 
stay on so?” 


330 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


In due time George and Sophie asked each other that 
question, and put it aside. They argued that the climate — a 
pearly blend, unlike the hot and cold ferocities of their native 
land — suited them, as the thick stillness of the nights cer- 
tainly suited George. He was saved even the sight of a 
metaled road, which, as presumably leading to business, 
wakes desire in a man; and the telegraph office at the village 
of Friars Pardon, where they sold picture post-cards and 
peg-tops, was two walking miles across the fields and woods. 
For all that touched his past among his fellows, or their re- 
membrance of him, he might have been in another planet; 
and Sophie, whose life had been very largely spent among 
husbandless wives of lofty ideals, had no wish to leave this 
present of God. The unhurried meals, the foreknowledge of 
deliciously empty hours to follow, the breadths of soft sky, 
under which they walked together and reckoned time only 
by their hunger or thirst; the good grass beneath their feet 
that cheated the miles; their discoveries, always together, 
amid the farms — Griffons, Rocketts, Burnt House, Gale 
Anstey, and the Home Farm, where Iggulden of the blue 
smock-frock would waylay them, and they would ransack 
the old house once more; the long wet afternoons when they 
tucked up their feet on the bedroom’s deep window-sill over 
against the apple trees, and talked together as never till then 
had they found time to talk — these things contented her soul, 
and her body throve. 

“Have you realized,” she asked one morning, “that we’ve 
been here absolutely alone for the last thirty-four days?” 

“Have you counted them?” he asked. 

“Did you like them?” she replied. 

“I must have. I didn’t think about them. Yes, I have. 
Six months ago I should have fretted myself sick. Re- 
member at Cairo? I’ve only had two or three bad times. 
Am I getting better, or is it senile decay?” 

“Climate, all climate.” Sophie swung her new-bought 
English boots, as she sat on the stile overlooking Friars 
Pardon, behind the Clokes’s barn. 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 


331 


“One must take hold of things though,” he said, “if it’s 
only to keep one’s hand in.” His eyes did not flicker now as 
they swept the empty fields. “Mustn’t one?” 

“Lay out a Morristown links over Gale Anstey. I dare 
say you could hire it.” 

“No, I’m not as English as that — nor as Morristown. 
Cloke says all the farms here could be made to pay.” 

“Well, I’m Anastasia in the ‘Treasure of Franchard.’ 
I’m content to be alive and purr. There’s no hurry.” 

“No.” He smiled. “All the same, I’m going to see after 
my mail.” 

“You promised you wouldn’t have any.” 

“There’s some business coming through that’s amusing 
me. Honest. It doesn’t get on my nerves at all.” 

“Want a secretary?” 

“No, thanks, old thing! Isn’t that quite English?” 

“Too English! Go away.” But none the less in broad 
daylight she returned the kiss. “I’m off to Pardons. I 
haven’t been to the house for nearly a week.” 

“How’ve you decided to furnish Jane Elphick’s bedroom?” 
he laughed, for it had come to be a permanent Castle in Spain 
between them. 

“Black Chinese furniture and yellow silk brocade,” she 
answered, and ran downhill. She scattered a few cows at a 
gap with a flourish of a ground-ash that Iggulden had cut for 
her a week ago, and singing as she passed under the holm- 
oaks, sought the farm-house at the back of Friars Pardon. 
The old man was not to be found, and she knocked at 
his half-opened door, for she needed him to fill her idle 
forenoon. A blue-eyed sheep-dog, a new friend, and 
Rambler’s old enemy, crawled out and besought her to 
enter. 

Iggulden sat in his chair by the fire, a thistle-spud between 
his knees, his head drooped. Though she had never seen 
death before, her heart, that missed a beat, told her that he 
was dead. She did not speak or cry, but stood outside the 
door, and the dog licked her hand*. When he threw up his 


332 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


nose, she heard herself saying: “Don’t howl! Please don’t 
begin to howl, Scottie, or I shall run away ! ” 

She held her ground while the shadows in the rick-yard 
moved toward noon; sat after a while on the steps by the door, 
her arms round the dog’s neck, waiting till someone should 
come. She watched the smokeless chimneys of Friars 
Pardon slash its roofs with shadow, and the smoke of Ig- 
gulden’s last-lighted fire gradually thin and cease. Against 
her will she fell to wondering how many Moones, Elphicks, 
and Torrells had been swung round the turn of the broad 
hall stairs. Then she remembered the old man’s talk of 
being “up-ended like a milk-can,” and buried her face on 
Scottie’s neck. At last a horse’s feet clinked upon flags, 
rustled in the old gray straw of the rick-yard, and she 
found herself facing the vicar — a figure she had seen at church 
declaiming impossibilities (Sophie was a Unitarian) in an 
unnatural voice. 

“He’s dead,” she said, without preface. 

“Old Iggulden? I was coming for a talk with him.” 
The vicar passed in uncovered. “Ah!” she heard him say. 
“Heart-failure! How long have you been here?” 

“Since a quarter to eleven.” She looked at her watch 
earnestly and saw that her hand did not shake. 

“I’ll sit with him now till the doctor comes. D’you think 
you could tell him, and — yes, Mrs. Betts in the cottage with 
the wistaria next the blacksmith’s? I’m afraid this has been 
rather a shock to you.” 

Sophie nodded, and fled toward the village. Her body 
failed her for a moment; she dropped beneath a hedge, and 
looked back at the great house. In some fashion its silence 
and stolidity steadied her for her errand. 

Mrs. Betts, small, black-eyed, and dark, was almost as 
unconcerned as Friars Pardon. 

“Yiss, yiss, of course. Dear me! Well, Iggulden he had 
had his day in my father’s time. Muriel, get me my little 
blue bag, please. Yiss, ma’am. They come down like 
ellum-branches in still weather. No warnin’ at all. Muriel, 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 333 

my bicycle’s be’ind the fowl-house. I’ll tell Dr. Dallas, 
ma’am.” 

She trundled off on her wheel like a brown bee, while 
Sophie — heaven above and earth beneath changed — walked 
stiffly home, to fall over George at his letters, in a muddle of 
laughter and tears. 

“It’s all quite natural for them” she gasped. “‘They 
come down like ellum-branches in still weather. Yiss, 
ma’am.’ No, there wasn’t anything in the least horrible, 
only — only — Oh, George, that poor shiny stick of his between 
his poor, thin knees! I couldn’t have borne it if Scottie had 
howled. I didn’t know the vicar was so — so sensitive. He 
said he was afraid it was ra-rather a shock. Mrs. Betts told 
me to go home, and I wanted to collapse on her floor. But I 
didn’t disgrace myself. I — I couldn’t have left him — could 
I?” 

“You’re sure you’ve took no ’arm?” cried Mrs. Cloke, who 
had heard the news by farm-telegraphy, which is older but 
swifter than Marconi’s. 

“No. I’m perfectly well,” Sophie protested. 

“You lay down till tea-time.” Mrs. Cloke patted her 
shoulder. “ They'll be very pleased, though she ’as ’ad no 
proper understandin’ for twenty years.” 

“They” came before twilight — a black-bearded man in 
moleskins, and a little palsied old woman who chirruped like 
a wren. 

“I’m his son,” said the man to Sophie, among the lavender 
bushes. “ We ’ad a difference — twenty year back, and didn’t 
speak since. But I’m his son all the same, and we thank 
you for the watching.” 

“I’m only glad I happened to be there,” she answered, 
and from the bottom of her heart she meant it. 

“We heard he spoke a lot o’ you — one time an’ another 
since you came. We thank you kindly,” the man added. 

“Are you the son that was in America?” she asked. 

“Yes, ma’am. On my uncle’s farm, in Connecticut. He 
was what they call road-master there.” 


334 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“Whereabouts in Connecticut?” asked George over her 
shoulder. 

“ Veering Holler was the name. I was there six year with 
my uncle.” 

“How small the world is!” Sophie cried. “Why, all my 
mother’s people come from Veering Hollow. There must be 
some there still — the Lashmars. Did you ever hear of them ? ” 

“I remember hearing that name, seems to me,” he an- 
swered, but his face was blank as the back of a spade. 

A little before dusk a woman in gray, striding like a foot- 
soldier, and bearing on her arm a long pole, crashed through 
the orchard calling for food. George, upon whom the un- 
announced English worked mysteriously, fled to the parlor; 
but Mrs. Cloke came forward beaming. Sophie could not 
escape. 

“ We’ve only just heard of it,” said the stranger, turning on 
her. “ I’ve been out with the otter-hounds all day. It was 
a splendidly sportin’ thing ” 

“Did you — er — kill?” said Sophie. She knew from books 
she could not go far wrong here. 

“Yes, a dry bitch — seventeen pounds,” was the answer. 
“A splendidly sportin’ thing of you to do. Poor old Ig- 
gulden ” 

“Oh — that!” said Sophie, enlightened. 

“If there had been any people at Pardons it would never 
have happened. He’d have been looked after. But what 
can you expect from a parcel of London solicitors?” 

Mrs. Cloke murmured something. 

“No. I’m soaked from the knees down. If I hang about 
I shall get chilled. A cup of tea, Mrs. Cloke, and I can eat 
one of your sandwiches as I go.” She wiped her weather- 
worn face with a green-and-yellow silk handkerchief. 

“Yes, my lady!” Mrs. Cloke ran and returned swiftly. 

“Our land marches with Pardons for a mile on the south,” 
she explained, waving the full cup, “but one has quite enough 
to do with one’s own people without poachin’. Still, if I’d 
known, I’d have sent Dora, of course. Have you seen her 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 


335 


this afternoon, Mrs. Cloke? No? I wonder whether that 
girl did sprain her ankle. Thank you.” It was a formidable 
hunk of bread and bacon that Mrs. Cloke presented. “As 
I was sayin’, Pardons is a scandal! Lettin’ people die like 
dogs. There ought to be people there who do their duty. 
You’ve done yours, though there wasn’t the faintest call upon 
you. Good-night. Tell Dora, if she comes, I’ve gone on.” 

She strode away, munching her crust, and Sophie reeled 
breathless into the parlor, to shake the shaking George. 

“Why did you keep catching my eye behind the blind? 
Why didn’t you come out and do your duty?” 

“Because I should have burst. Did you see the mud on 
its cheek?” he said. 

“Once. I daren’t look again. Who is she?” 

“God — a local deity then. Anyway, she’s another of the 
things you’re expected to know by instinct.” 

Mrs. Cloke, shocked at their levity, told them that it was 
Lady Conant, wife of Sir Walter Conant, Baronet, a large 
landholder in the neighborhood, and if not God, at least His 
visible Providence. 

George made her talk of that family for an hour. 

“Laughter,” said Sophie afterward in their own room, “is 
the mark of the savage. Why couldn’t you control your 
emotions? It’s all real to her .” 

“ It’s all real to me. That’s my trouble,” he answered in 
an altered tone. “Anyway, it’s real enough to mark time 
with. Don’t you think so?” 

“What d’you mean?” she asked quickly, though she knew 
his voice. 

“That I’m better. I’m well enough to kick.” 

“What at?” 

“This!” He waved his hand around the one room. “I 
must have something to play with till I’m fit for work again.” 

“Ah ! ” She sat on the bed and leaned forward, her hands 
clasped. “I wonder if it’s good for you.” 

“We’ve been better here than anywhere,” he went on 
slowly. “One could always sell it again.” 


336 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


She nodded gravely, but her eyes sparkled. 

“The only thing that worries me is what happened this 
morning. I want to know how you feel about it. If it’s 
on your nerves in the least we can have the old farm at the 
back of the house pulled down, or perhaps it has spoiled the 
notion for you?” 

“Pull it down?” she cried. “You’ve no business faculty. 
Why, that’s where we could live while we’re putting the 
big house in order. It’s almost under the same roof. No! 
What happened this morning seemed to be more of a — of a 
leading than anything else. There ought to be people at 
Pardons. Lady Conant’s quite right.” 

“ I was thinking more of the woods and the roads. I could 
double the value of the place in six months.” 

“What do they want for it? She shook her head, and her 
loosened hair fell glowingly about her cheeks. 

“ Seventy-five thousand dollars. They’ll take sixty-eight.” 

“Less than half what we paid for our old yacht when we 
married. And we didn’t have a good time in her. You 
were ” 

“Well, I discovered I was too much of an American to be 
content to be a rich man’s son. You aren’t blaming me for 
that?” 

“Oh, no. Only it was a very businesslike honeymoon. 
How far are you along with the deal, George?” 

“ I can mail the deposit on the purchase money to-morrow 
morning, and we can have the thing completed in a fort- 
night or three weeks — if you say so.” 

“Friars Pardon — Friars Pardon!” Sophie chanted rap- 
turously, her dark gray eyes big with delight. “All the 
farms? Gale Anstey, Burnt House, Rocketts, the Home 
Farm, and Griffons? Sure you’ve got ’em all?” 

“Sure.” He smiled. 

“And the woods? High Pardons Wood, Lower Pardons, 
Suttons, Dutton’s Shaw, Reuben’s Ghyll, Maxey’s Ghyll, 
and both the Oak Hangers? Sure you’ve got ’em all?” 

“Every last stick. Why, you know them as well as I do.” 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 


337 


He laughed. “They say there’s five thousand — a thousand 
pounds’ worth of lumber — timber they call it — in the Hangers 
alone.” 

“Mrs. Cloke’s oven must be mended first thing, and the 
kitchen roof. I think I’ll have all this whitewashed,” 
Sophie broke in, pointing to the ceiling. “ The whole place is 
a scandal. Lady Conant is quite right. George, when did you 
begin to fall in love with the house? In the green room — that 
first day? I did.” 

“I’m not in love with it. One must do something to mark 
time till one’s fit for work.” 

“Or when we stood under the oaks, and the door opened? 
Oh! Ought I go to poor Iggulden’s funeral?” She sighed 
with utter happiness. 

“Wouldn’t they call it a liberty — now?” said he. 

“But I liked him.” 

“But you didn’t own him at the date of his death.” 

“That wouldn’t keep me away. Only, they made such a 
fuss about the watching” — she caught her breath — “it might 
be ostentatious from that point of view, too. Oh, George ” — 
she reached for his hand — “we’re two little orphans moving in 
worlds not realized, and we shall make some bad breaks. 
But we’re going to have the time of our lives.” 

“We’ll run up to London to-morrow, and see if we can 
hurry those English law — solicitors. I want to get to work.” 

They went. They suffered many things ere they returned 
across the fields in a fly one Saturday night, nursing a two 
by two-and-a-half box of deeds and maps — lawful owners of 
Friars Pardon and the five decayed farms therewith. 

“I do most sincerely ’ope and trust you’ll be ’appy, 
Madam,” Mrs. Cloke gasped, when she was told the news by 
the kitchen fire. 

“Goodness! It isn’t a marriage!” Sophie exclaimed, 
a little awed; for to them the joke, which to an American 
means work, was only just beginning. 

“If it’s took in a proper spirit” — Mrs. Cloke’s eye turned 
toward her oven. 


338 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“Send and have that mended to-morrow,” Sophie whis- 
pered. 

“We couldn’t ’elp noticing,” said Cloke slowly, “from 
the times you walked there, that you an’ your lady was 
drawn to it, but — but I don’t know as we ever precisely 
thought ” His wife’s glance checked him. 

“That we were that sort of people,” said George. “We 
aren’t sure of it ourselves yet.” 

“Perhaps,” said Cloke, rubbing his knees, “just for the 
sake of saying something, perhaps you’ll park it?” 

“What’s that?” said George. 

“Turn it all into a fine park like Violet Hill” — he jerked a 
thumb to westward — “that Mr. Sangres bought. It was 
four farms, and Mr. Sangres made a fine park of them, with 
a herd of faller deer.” 

“Then it wouldn’t be Friars Pardon,” said Sophie. 
“Would it?” 

“I don’t know as I’ve ever heard Pardons was ever any- 
thing but wheat an’ wool. Only some gentlemen say that 
parks are less trouble than tenants.” He laughed nervously. 
“ But the gentry, o’ course, they keep on pretty much as they 
was used to.” 

“I see,” said Sophie. “How did Mr. Sangres make his 
money?” 

“I never rightly heard. It was pepper an’ spices, or it 
may ha’ been gloves. No. Gloves was Sir Reginald Liss, 
at Marley End. Spices was Mr. Sangres. He’s a Brazilian 
gentleman — very sunburnt like.” 

“Be sure o’ one thing. You won’t ’ave any trouble,” said 
Mrs. Cloke, just before they went to bed. 

Now the news of the purchase was told to Mr. and Mrs. 
Cloke alone at 8 p.m. of a Saturday. None left the farm till 
they set out for church next morning. Yet when they 
reached the church and were about to slip aside into their 
usual seats, a little beyond the font, where they could see 
the red-furred tails of the bell-ropes waggle and twist at 
ringing time, they were swept forward irresistibly, a Cloke on 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 


339 


either flank (and yet they had not walked with the Clokes), 
upon the ever-retiring bosom of a black-gowned verger, who 
ushered them into a room of a pew at the head of the left aisle, 
under the pulpit. 

“This,” he sighed reproachfully, “is the Pardons’ Pew,” 
and shut them in. 

They could see little more than the choir boys in the 
chancel, but to the roots of the hair of their necks they felt 
the congregation behind mercilessly devouring them by look. 

“When the wicked man turneth away .” The strong, alien 
voice of the priest vibrated under the hammer-beam roof, and 
a loneliness unfelt before swamped their hearts, as they 
searched for places in the unfamiliar Church of England 
service. The Lord’s Prayer — “Our Father, which art” — set 
the seal on that desolation. Sophie found herself thinking 
how in other lands their purchase would long ere this have 
been discussed from every point of view in a dozen prints, 
forgetting that George for months had not been allowed to 
glance at those black and bellowing head-lines. Here was 
nothing but silence — not even hostility! The game was up 
to them; the other players hid their cards and waited. Sus- 
pense, she felt, was in the air, and when her sight cleared, 
saw, indeed, a mural tablet of a footless bird brooding upon 
the carven motto, “Wayte awhyle — wayte awhyle.” 

At the Litany George had trouble with an unstable has- 
sock, and drew the slip of carpet under the pew-seat. Sophie 
pushed her end back also, and shut her eyes against a burning 
that felt like tears. When she opened them she was looking 
at her mother’s maiden name, fairly carved on a blue flag- 
stone on the pew floor: 

Ellen Lashmar. ob. 1796. setat. 27. 

She nudged George and pointed. Sheltered, as they 
kneeled, they looked for more knowledge, but the rest of the 
slab was blank. 

“’Ever hear of her?” he whispered. 


340 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“Never knew any of us came from here.” 

“Coincidence?” 

“Perhaps. But it makes me feel better,” and she smiled 
and winked away a tear on her lashes, and took his hand 
while they prayed for “all women laboring of child” — not 
“in the perils of childbirth”; and the sparrows who had 
found their way through the guards behind the glass win- 
dows chirped above the faded gilt and alabaster family tree 
of the Conants. 

The baronet’s pew was on the right of the aisle. After 
service its inhabitants moved forth without haste, but so as 
to block effectively a dusky person with a large family who 
champed in their rear. 

“Spices, I think,” said Sophie, deeply delighted as the 
Sangres closed up after the Conants. “Let ’em get away, 
George.” 

But when they came out many folk whose eyes were one 
still lingered by the lych-gate. 

“I want to see if any more Lashmars are buried here,” 
said Sophie. 

“Not now. This seems to be show day. Come home 
quickly,” he replied. 

A group of families, the Clokes a little apart, opened to let 
them through. The men saluted with jerky nods, the 
women with remnants of a curtsey. Only Iggulden’s son, 
his mother on his arm, lifted his hat as Sophie passed. 

“Your people,” said the clear voice of Lady Conant in her 
ear. 

“I suppose so,” said Sophie, blushing, for they were within 
two yards of her; but it was not a question. 

“Then that child looks as if it were coming down with 
mumps. You ought to tell the mother she shouldn’t have 
brought it to church.” 

“I can’t leave ’er be’ind, my lady,” the woman said. 
“She’d set the ’ouse afire in a minute, she’s that forward with 
the matches. Ain’t you, Maudie dear?” 

“Has Dr. Dallas seen her?” 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 


341 


“Not yet, my lady.” 

“He must. You can’t get away, of course. M — m! My 
idiotic maid is coming in for her teeth to-morrow at twelve. 
She shall pick her up — at Gale Anstey, isn’t it? — at eleven.” 

“Yes. Thank you very much, my lady.” 

“I oughtn’t to have done it,” said Lady Conant apolo- 
getically, “ but there has been no one at Pardons for so long 
that you’ll forgive my poaching. Now, can’t you lunch with 
us? The vicar usually comes too. I don’t use the horses 
on a Sunday” — she glanced at the Brazilian’s silver-plated 
chariot. “ It’s only a mile across the fields.” 

“You — you’re very kind,” said Sophie, hating herself be- 
cause her lip trembled. 

“My dear,” the compelling tone dropped to a soothing 
gurgle, “d’you suppose I don’t know how it feels to come to a 
strange county — country I should say — away from one’s own 
people? When I first left the Shires — I’m Shropshire, you 
know — I cried for a day and a night. But fretting doesn’t 
make loneliness any better. Oh, here’s Dora. She did 
sprain her leg that day.” 

“I’m as lame as a tree still,” said the tall maiden frankly. 
“You ought to go out with the otter-hounds, Mrs. Chapin. 
I believe they’re drawing your water next week.” 

Sir Walter had already led off George, and the vicar came 
up on the other side of Sophie. There was no escaping the 
swift procession or the leisurely lunch, where talk came and 
went in low- voiced eddies that had the village for their center. 
Sophie heard the vicar and Sir Walter address her husband 
lightly as Chapin! (She also remembered many women 
known in a previous life who habitually addressed their 
husbands as Mr. Such-an-one.) After lunch Lady Conant 
talked to her explicitly of maternity as that is achieved in 
cottages and farm-houses remote from aid, and of the duty 
thereto of the mistress of Pardons. 

A gate in a beech hedge, reached across triple lawns, let 
them out before tea-time into the unkempt south side of their 
land. 


342 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


44 1 want your hand, please,” said Sophie as soon as they 
were safe among the beech boles and the lawless hollies. 
“D’you remember the old maid in ‘Providence and the 
Guitar’ who heard the Commissary swear, and hardly reck- 
oned herself a maiden lady afterward? Because I’m a 
relative of hers. Lady Conant is ” 

“Did you find out anything about the Lashmars?” he 
interrupted. 

44 1 didn’t ask. I’m going to write to Aunt Sydney about 
it first. Oh, Lady Conant said something at lunch about 
their having bought some land from some Lashmars a few 
years ago. I found it was at the beginning of last century.” 

“What did you say?” 

“I said, ‘Really, how interesting!’ Like that. I’m not 
going to push myself forward. I’ve been hearing about Mr. 
Sangres’s efforts in that direction. And you? I couldn’t 
see you behind the flowers. Was it very deep water, dear ? ” 

George mopped a brow already browned by outdoor ex- 
posures. 

“Oh no — dead easy,” he answered. “I’ve bought Friars 
Pardon to prevent Sir Walter’s birds straying.” 

A cock pheasant scuttered through the dry leaves and 
exploded almost under their feet. Sophie jumped. 

“That’s one of ’em,” said George, calmly. 

“Well, your nerves are better, at any rate,” said she. 
“Did you tell ’em you’d bought the thing to play with?” 

“No. That was where my nerve broke down. I only 
made one bad break — I think. I said I couldn’t see why 
hiring land to men to farm wasn’t as much a business propo- 
sition as anything else.” 

“And what did they say?” 

“They smiled. I shall know what that smile means some 
day. They don’t waste their smiles. D’you see that track 
by Gale Anstey?” 

They looked down from the edge of the hanger over a cup- 
like hollow. People by twos and threes in their Sunday best 
filed slowly along the paths that connected farm to farm. 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 343 

“I’ve never seen so many on our land before,” said Sophie. 
“Why is it?” 

“To show us we mustn’t shut up their rights of way.” 

“Those cow-tracks we’ve been using cross lots?” said 
Sophie forcibly. 

“ Yes. Any one of ’em would cost us two thousand pounds 
each in legal expenses to close.” 

“But we don’t want to,” she said. 

“ The whole community would fight if we did.” 

“But it’s our land. We can do what we like.” 

“It’s not our land. We’ve only paid for it. We belong 
to it, and it belongs to the people — our people they call ’em. 
I’ve been to lunch with the English too.” 

They passed slowly from one bracken-dotted field to the 
next — flushed with pride of ownership, plotting alterations 
and restorations at each turn; halting in their tracks to argue, 
spreading apart to embrace two views at once, or closing in to 
consider one. Couples moved out of their way, but smiling 
covertly. 

“We shall make some bad breaks,” he said at last. 

“Together, though. You won’t let any one else in, will 
you?” 

“Except the contractors. This syndicate handles this 
proposition by its little lone.” 

“But you might feel the want of someone,” she insisted. 

“I shall — but it will be you. It’s business, Sophie, but 
it’s going to be good fun.” 

“Please God,” she answered flushing, and cried to herself 
as they went back to tea. “ It’s worth it. Oh, it’s worth it.” 

The repairing and moving into Friars Pardon was business 
of the most varied and searching, but all done English fashion, 
without friction. Time and money alone were asked. The 
rest lay in the hands of beneficent advisers from London, or 
spirits, male and female, called up by Mr. and Mrs. Cloke 
from the wastes of the farms. In the center stood George and 
Sophie, a little aghast, their interests reaching out on every 
side. 


344 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“I ain’t sayin’ anything against Londoners,” said Cloke, 
self-appointed clerk of the outer works, consulting engineer, 
head of the immigration bureau, and superintendent of woods 
and forests; “but your own people won’t go about to make 
more than a fair profit out of you.” 

“How is one to know?” said George. 

“Five years from now, or so on, maybe, you’ll be lookin’ 
over your first year’s accounts, and, knowin’ what you’ll know 
then, you’ll say: ‘Well, Billy Beartup’ — or Old Cloke as it 
might be — ‘did me proper when I was new.’ No man likes to 
have that sort of thing laid up against him.” 

“I think I see,” said George. “But five years is a long 
time to look ahead.” 

“I doubt if that oak Billy Beartup throwed in Reuben’s 
Ghyll will be fit for her drawin’-room floor in less than seven,” 
Cloke drawled. 

“Yes, that’s my work,” said Sophie. (Billy Beartup of 
Griffons, a woodman by training and birth, a tenant farmer 
by misfortune of marriage, had laid his broad axe at her feet 
a month before.) “Sorry if I’ve committed you to another 
eternity.” 

“And we sha’n’t even know where we’ve gone wrong with 
your new carriage drive before that time either,” said Cloke, 
ever anxious to keep the balance true — with an ounce or two 
in Sophie’s favor. The past four months had taught George 
better than to reply. The carriage road winding up the hill 
was his present keen interest. They set off to look at it, and 
the imported American scraper which had blighted the 
none too sunny soul of “Skim” Winsh, the carter. But 
young Iggulden was in charge now, and under his guid- 
ance, Buller and Roberts, the great horses, moved moun- 
tains. 

“You lif ’ her like that, an’ you tip her like that,” he ex- 
plained to the gang. “My uncle he was road-master in 
Connecticut.” 

“Are they roads yonder?” said Skim, sitting under the 
laurels. 


345 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 

“No better than accommodation roads. Dirt, they call 
’em. They’d suit you, Skim.” 

“Why?” said the incautious Skim. 

“ ’Cause you’d take no hurt when you fall out of your cart 
drunk on a Saturday,” was the answer. 

“I didn’t last time neither,” Skim roared. 

After the loud laugh, old Whybarne of Gale Anstey piped 
feebly, “Well, dirt or no dirt, there’s no denyin’ Chapin 
knows a good job when he sees it. ’E don’t build one day 
and dee-stroy the next, like that nigger Sangres.” 

“ She’s the one that knows her own mind,” said Pinky, 
brother to Skim Winsh, and a Napoleon among carters who 
had helped to bring the grand piano across the fields in the 
autumn rains. 

“She had ought to,” said Iggulden. “Whoa, Buller! 
She’s a Lashmar. They never was double-thinking.” 

“Oh, you found that? Has the answer come from your 
uncle?” said Skim, doubtful whether so remote a land as 
America had posts. 

The others looked at him scornfully. Skim was always 
a day behind the fair. 

Iggulden rested from his labors. “She’s a Lashmar right 
enough. I started up to write to my uncle at once — the 
month after she said her folks came from Veering Holler.” 

“Where there ain’t any roads?” Skim interrupted, but 
none laughed. 

“My uncle he married an American woman for his second, 
and she took it up like a — like the coroner. She’s a Lashmar 
out of the old Lashmar place, ’fore they sold to Conants. 
She ain’t no Toot Hill Lashmar, nor any o’ the Crayford lot. 
Her folk come out of the ground here, neither chalk nor forest, 
but wildishers. They sailed over to America — I’ve got it all 
writ down by my uncle’s woman — in eighteen hundred an’ 
nothing. My uncle says they’re all slow begetters like.” 

“Would they be gentry yonder now?” Skim asked. 

“Nah — there’s no gentry in America, no matter how long 
you’re there. It’s against their law. There’s only rich and 


346 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


poor allowed. They’ve been lawyers and such like over yon- 
der for a hundred years — but she’s a Lashmar for all that.” 

“Lord! What’s a hundred years?” said Whybarne, who 
had seen seventy-eight of them. 

“An’ they write too, from yonder — my uncle’s woman 
writes — that you can still tell ’em by head-mark. Their 
hair’s foxy-red still — an’ they throw out when they walk. 
He's in-toed — treads like a gipsy; but you watch, an’ you’ll 
see ’er throw out — like a colt.” 

“Your trace wants taking up.” Pinky’s large ears had 
caught the sound of voices, and as the two broke through the 
laurels the men were hard at work, their eyes on Sophie’s feet. 

She had been less fortunate in her inquiries than Iggulden, 
for her Aunt Sydney of Meriden (a badged and certificated 
Daughter of the Revolution to boot) answered her inquiries 
with a two-paged discourse on patriotism, the leaflets of a 
Village Improvement Society, of which she was president, and 
a demand for an overdue subscription to a Factory Girls’ 
Reading Circle. Sophie burned it all in the Orpheus and 
Eurydice grate, and kept her own counsel. 

“What I want to know,” said George, when spring was 
coming, and the gardens needed thought, “is who will ever 
pay me for my labor? I’ve put in at least half a million 
dollars’ worth already.” 

“Sure you’re not taking too much out of yourself?” his 
wife asked. 

“Oh, no; I haven’t been conscious of myself all winter.” 
He looked at his brown English gaiters and smiled. “It’s 
all behind me now. I believe I could sit down and think 
of all that — those months before we sailed.” 

“Don’t — ah, don’t!” she cried. 

“But I must go back one day. You don’t want to keep 
me out of business always — or do you?” He ended with a 
nervous laugh. 

Sophie sighed as she drew her own ground-ash (of old 
Iggulden’s cutting) from the hall rack. 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 347 

“Aren’t you overdoing it too? You look a little tired,” 
he said. 

“You make me tired. I’m going to Rocketts to see Mrs. 
Cloke about Mary.” (This was the sister of the telegraphist, 
promoted to be sewing-maid at Pardons.) “Coming?” 

“ I’m due at Burnt House to see about the new well. By 
the way, there’s a sore throat at Gale Anstey ” 

“That’s my province. Don’t interfere. The Whybarne 
children always have sore throats. They do it for jujubes.” 

“Keep away from Gale Anstey till I make sure, honey. 
Cloke ought to have told me.” 

“These people don’t tell. Haven’t you learnt that yet? 
But I’ll obey, me lord. See you later!” 

She set off afoot, for within the three main roads that 
bounded the blunt triangle of the estate (even by night one 
could scarcely hear the carts on them), wheels were not used 
except for farm work. The footpaths served all other 
purposes. And though at first they had planned improve- 
ments, they had soon fallen in with the customs of their 
hidden kingdom, and moved about the soft-footed ways by 
woodland, hedge-row, and shaw as freely as the rabbits. 
Indeed, for the most part Sophie walked bareheaded be- 
neath her helmet of chestnut hair; but she had been plagued 
of late by vague aches, which she explained to Mrs. Cloke, 
who asked some questions. How it came about Sophie 
never knew, but after a while behold Mrs. Cloke’s arm was 
about her waist, and her head was on that deep bosom behind 
the shut kitchen door. 

“My dear! My dear!” the elder woman almost sobbed. 
“An’ d’you mean to tell me you never suspicioned? Why — 
why — where was you ever taught anything at all? Of 
course it is. It’s what we’ve been only waitin’ for, all of us. 

Time and again I’ve said to Lady ” she checked herself. 

“An’ now we shall be as we should be.” 

“But — but — but ” Sophie whimpered. 

“An’ to see you buildin’ your nest so busy — pianos and 
books — an’ never thinkin’ of a nursery!” 


348 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“No more I did.” Sophie sat bolt upright, and began to 
laugh. 

“Time enough yet.” The fingers tapped thoughtfully on 
the broad knee. “But — they must be strange-minded folk 
over yonder with you ! Have you thought to send for your 
mother? She dead? My dear, my dear! Never mind! 
She’ll be happy where she knows. ’Tis God’s work. An’ we 
was only waitin’ for it, for you’ve never failed in your duty 
yet. It ain’t your way. What did you say about my Mary’s 
doings?” Mrs. Cloke’s face hardened as she pressed her 
chin on Sophie’s forehead. “If any of your girls thinks to 

be’ave arbitrary now, I’ll But they won’t, my dear. 

I’ll see they do their duty too. Be sure you’ll ’ave no trouble.” 

When Sophie walked back across the fields heaven and 
earth changed about her as on the day of old Iggulden’s 
death. For an instant she thought of the wide turn of the 
staircase, and the new ivory-white paint that no coffin 
corner could scar, but presently the shadow passed in a pure 
wonder and bewilderment that made her reel. She leaned 
against one of their new gates and looked over their lands for 
some other stay. 

“Well,” she said resignedly, half aloud, “we must try to 
make him feel that he isn’t a third in our party,” and turned 
the corner that looked over Friars Pardon, giddy, sick, and 
faint. 

Of a sudden the house they had bought for a whim stood up 
as she had never seen it before, low-fronted, broad-winged, 
ample, prepared by course of generations for all such things. 
As it had steadied her when it lay desolate, so now that it 
had meaning from their few months of life within, it soothed 
and promised good. She went alone and quickly into the 
hall, and kissed either door-post, whispering: “Be good to 
me. You know! You’ve never failed in your duty yet.” 

When the matter was explained to George, he would have 
sailed at once to their own land, but this Sophie forbade. 

“I don’t want science,” she said. “I just want to be 
loved, and there isn’t time for that at home. Besides,” 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 349 

she added, looking out of the window, “it would be de- 
sertion.” 

George was forced to soothe himself with linking Friars 
Pardon to the telegraph system of Great Britain by tele- 
phone — three-quarters of a mile of poles, put in by Whybarne 
and a few friends. One of these was a foreigner from the 
next parish. Said he when the line was being run : “ There’s 

an old ellum right in our road. Shall us throw her?” 

“Toot Hill parish folk, neither grace nor good luck, God 
help ’em.” Old Whybarne shouted the local proverb from 
three poles down the line. “We ain’t goin’ to lay any axe- 
iron to coffin- wood here — not till we know where we are yet 
awhile. Swing round ’er, swing round!” 

To this day, then, that sudden kink, in the straight line 
across the upper pasture remains a mystery to Sophie and 
George. Nor can they tell why Skim Winsh, who came to 
his cottage under Dutton Shaw most musically drunk at 
10.45 p. m. of every Saturday, as his father had done 
before him, sang no more at the bottom of the garden steps, 
where Sophie always feared he would break his neck. The 
path was undoubtedly an ancient right of way, and at 10.45 
p.m. on Saturdays Skim remembered it was his duty to posterity 
to keep it open — till Mrs. Cloke spoke to him — once. She 
spoke likewise to her daughter Mary, sewing-maid at Par- 
dons, and to Mary’s best new friend, the five-foot-seven 
imported London house-maid, who taught Mary to trim 
hats, and found the country dullish. 

But there was no noise — at no time was there any noise — 
and when Sophie walked abroad she met no one in her path 
unless she had signified a wish that way. Then they ap- 
peared to protest that all was well with them and their 
children, their chickens, their roofs, their water-supply, and 
their sons in the police or the railway service. 

“But don’t you find it dull, dear?” said George, loyally 
doing his best not to worry as the months went by. 

“I’ve been so busy putting my house in order I haven’t 
had time to think,” said she. “Do you?” 


350 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


“No — no. E I could only be sure of you.” 

She turned on the green drawing-room’s couch (it was 
Empire, not Heppelwhite after all), and laid aside a list of 
linen and blankets. 

“ It has changed everything, hasn’t it? ” she whispered. 

“Oh, Lord, yes. But I still think if we went back to 
Baltimore-— — ” 

“And missed our first real summer together. No thank 
you, me lord.” 

“But we’re absolutely alone.” 

“Isn’t that what I’m doing my best to remedy? Don’t 
you worry. I like it — like it to the marrow of my little bones. 
You don’t realize what her house means to a woman. We 
thought we were living in it last year, but we hadn’t begun 
to. Don’t you rejoice in your study, George?” 

“I prefer being here with you.” He sat down on the 
floor by the couch and took her hand. 

“Seven,” she said, as the French clock struck. “Year 
before last you’d just be coming back from business.” 

He winced at the recollection, then laughed. “Business! 
I’ve been at work ten solid hours to-day.” 

“Where did you lunch? With the Conants?” 

“No; at Dutton Shaw, sitting on a log, with my feet in a 
swamp. But we’ve found out where the old spring is, and 
we’re going to pipe it down to Gale Anstey next year.” 

“I’ll come and see to-morrow. Oh, please open the door, 
dear. I want to look down the passage. Isn’t that corner 
by the stair-head lovely where the sun strikes in?” She 
looked through half-closed eyes at the vista of ivory-white and 
pale green all steeped in liquid gold. 

“There’s a step out of Jane Elphick’s bedroom,” she went 
on — “and his first step in the world ought to be up. I 
shouldn’t wonder if those people hadn’t put it there on pur- 
pose. George, will it make any odds to you if he’s a girl?” 

He answered, as he had many times before, that his 
interest was his wife, not the child. 

“Then you’re the only person who thinks so,” Sh;' 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 


351 


laughed. “Don’t be silly, dear. It’s expected. I know. 
It’s my duty. I sha’n’t be able to look our people in the 
face if I fail.” 

“What concern is it of theirs, confound ’em!” 

“You’ll see. Luckily the tradition of the house is boys, 
Mrs. Cloke says, so I’m provided for. Shall you ever begin 
to understand these people? I sha’n’t.” 

“And we bought it for fun — for fun!” he groaned. “And 
here we are held up for goodness knows how long!” 

“Why? Were you thinking of selling it?” He did not 
answer. “Do you remember the second Mrs. Chapin?” she 
demanded. 

This was a bold, brazen little black-browed woman — a 
widow for choice — who on Sophie’s death was guilefully to 
marry George for his wealth and ruin him in a year. George 
being busy, Sophie had invented her some two years after 
her marriage, and conceived she was alone among wives in so 
doing. 

“You aren’t going to bring her up again?” he asked 
anxiously. 

“ I only want to say that I should hate any one who bought 
Pardons ten times worse than I used to hate the second Mrs. 
Chapin. Think what we’ve put into it of our two selves.” 

“At least a couple of million dollars. I know I could have 
made ” He broke off. 

“The beasts!” she went on. “They’d be sure to build a 
red-brick lodge at the gates, and cut the lawn up for bedding 
out. You must leave instructions in your will that he’s 
never to do that, George, won’t you?” 

He laughed and took her hand again but said nothing till 
it was time to dress. Then he muttered: “What the devil 
use is a man’s country to him when he can’t do business in 
it?” 

Friars Pardon stood faithful to its tradition. At the 
appointed time was born, not that third in their party to 
whom Sophie meant to be so kind, but a godling; in beauty, it 


3 52 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


was manifest, excelling Eros, as in wisdom Confucius; an en- 
hancer of delights, a renewer of companionships and an 
interpreter of Destiny. This last George did not realize till 
he met Lady Conant striding through Dutton Shaw a few 
days after the event. 

“My dear fellow,” she cried, and slapped him heartily on 
the back, “ I can’t tell you how glad we all are. — Oh, she’ll be 
all right. (There’s never been any trouble over the birth 
of an heir at Pardons.) Now where the dooce is it?” She 
felt largely in her leather-bound skirt and drew out a small 
silver mug. “I sent a note to your wife about it, but my 
silly ass of a groom forgot to take this. You can save me 
a tramp. Give her my love.” She marched off amid her 
guard of grave Airedales. 

The mug was worn and dented : above the twined initials, 
G.L., was the crest of a footless bird and the motto : “ Wayte 
awhyle — wayte awhyle.” 

“That’s the other end of the riddle,” Sophie whispered, 
when he saw her that evening. “Read her note. The 
English write beautiful notes.” 

The warmest of welcomes to your little man. I hope he will appreciate 
his native land now he has come to it. Though you have said nothing we 
cannot, of course, look on him as a little stranger, and so I am sending him 
the old Lashmar christening mug. It has been with us since Gregory 
Lashmar, your great-grandmother’s brother — 

George stared at his wife. 

“ Go on,” she twinkled, from the pillows. 

— mother’s brother, sold his place to Walter’s family. We seem to have 
acquired some of your household gods at that time, but nothing survives 
except the mug and the old cradle, which I found in the potting-shed and am 
having put in order for you. I hope little George — Lashmar, he will be too, 
won’t he? — will live to see his grandchildren cut their teeth on his mug. 

Affectionately yours, 

Alice Conant. 

P.S. — How quiet you’ve kept about it all! 

“Well, I’m ” 

“Don’t swear,” said Sophie. “Bad for the infant mind.” 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 


353 


“But how in the world did she get at it? Have you ever 
said a word about the Lashmars?” 

“ You know the only time — to young Iggulden at Rocketts 
— when Iggulden died.” 

“Your great-grandmother’s brother! She’s traced the 
whole connection — more than your Aunt Sydney could do. 
What does she mean about our keeping quiet?” 

Sophie’s eyes sparkled. “I’ve thought that out too. 
We’ve got back at the English at last. Can’t you see that 
she thought that we thought my mother’s being a Lashmar 
was one of those things we’d expect the English to find out for 
themselves, and that’s impressed her?” She turned the 
mug in her white hands, and sighed happily. “‘Wayte 
awhyle — wayte awhyle.’ That’s not a bad motto, George. 
It’s been worth it.” 

“But still I don’t quite see ” 

“I shouldn’t wonder if they don’t think our coming here 
was part of a deep-laid scheme to be near our ancestors. 
They'd understand that. And look how they’ve accepted us, 
all of them.” 

“Are we so undesirable in ourselves?” George grunted. 

“ Be just, me lord. That wretched Sangres man has twice 
our money. Can you see Marm Conant slapping him be- 
tween the shoulders? Not by a jugful! The poor beast 
doesn’t exist!” 

“Do you think it’s that then?” He looked toward the 
cot by the fire where the godling snorted. 

“The minute I get well I shall find out from Mrs. Cloke 
what every Lashmar gives in doles (that’s nicer than tips) 
every time a Lashmite is born. I’ve done my duty thus far, 
but there’s much expected of me.” 

Entered here Mrs. Cloke, and hung worshipping over the 
cot. They showed her the mug and her face shone. “Oh, 
now Lady Conant’s sent it, it’ll be all proper, ma’am, won’t 
it? ‘George’ of course he’d have to be, but seein’ what he is 
we was hopin’ — all your people was hopin’ — it ’ud be ‘Lash- 
mar’ too, and that ’ud just round it out. A very ’andsome 


354 


STORIES FROM KIPLING 


mug — quite unique, I should imagine. ‘Wayte awhyle — 
wayte awhyle.’ That’s true with the Lashmars, I’ve heard. 
Very slow to fill their houses, they are. Most like Master 
George won’t open ’is nursery till he’s thirty.” 

“ Poor lamb ! ” cried Sophie. “ But how did you know my 
folk were Lashmars?” 

Mrs. Cloke thought deeply. “I’m sure I can’t quite say, 
ma’am, but I’ve a belief likely that it was something you 
may have let drop to young Iggulden when you was at 
Rocketts. That may have been what give us an inkling. 
An’ so it came out, one thing in the way o’ talk leading to 
another, and those American people at Veering Holler was 
very obligin’ with news, I’m told, ma’am.” 

“Great Scott!” said George, under his breath. “And 
this is the simple peasant!” 

“Yiss,” Mrs. Cloke went on. “An’ Cloke was only 
wonderin’ this afternoon — your pillow’s slipped my dear, 
you mustn’t lie that a-way — just for the sake o’ sayin’ some- 
thing, whether you wouldn’t think well now of getting the 
Lashmar farms back, sir. They don’t rightly round off Sir 
Walter’s estate. They come caterin’ across us more. Cloke, 
’e ’ud be glad to show you over any day.” 

“But Sir Walter doesn’t want to sell, does he?” 

“We can find out from his bailiff, sir, but” — with cold 
contempt — “I think that trained nurse is just cornin’ up from 
her dinner, so I’m afraid we’ll ’ave to ask you, sir . . . 

Now, Master George — Ai-ie ! Wake a litty minute, lammie !” 

A few months later the three of them were down at the 
brook in the Gale Anstey woods to consider the rebuilding 
of a footbridge carried away by spring floods. George Lash- 
mar Chapin wanted all the bluebells on God’s earth that day 
to eat, and Sophie adored him in a voice like to the cooing of a 
dove; so business was delayed. 

“Here’s the place,” said his father at last among the water 
forget-me-nots. “But where the deuce are the larch-poles, 
Cloke? I told you to have them down here ready.” 


AN HABITATION ENFORCED 355 

“We’ll get ’em down if you say so,” Cloke answered, with 
a thrust of the underlip they both knew. 

“But I did say so. What on earth have you brought that 
timber-tug here for? We aren’t building a railway bridge. 
Why, in America, half a dozen two-by-four bits would be 
ample.” 

“ I don’t know nothin’ about that,” said Cloke. “An’ I’ve 
nothin’ to say against larch — if you want to make a temp’ry 
job of it. I ain’t ’ere to tell you what isn’t so, sir; an’ you 
can’t say I ever come creepin’ up on you, or tryin’ to lead you 
further in than you set out ” 

A year ago George would have danced with impatience. 
Now he scraped a little mud off his old gaiters with his spud, 
and waited. 

“All I say is that you can put up larch and make a temp’ry 
job of it; and by the time the young master’s married it’ll have 
to be done again. Now, I’ve brought down a couple of as 
sweet six-by-eight oak timbers as we’ve ever drawed. You 
put ’em in an’ it’s off your mind for good an’ all. T’other 
way — I don’t say it ain’t right, I’m only just sayin’ what I 
think — but t’other way, he’ll no sooner be married than we’ll 
’ave it all to do again. You’ve no call to regard my words 
but you can’t get out of that” 

“No,” said George after a pause; “I’ve been realizing 
that for some time. Make it oak then; we can’t get out of 
it.” 


THE END 



THE COUNTRY LIFE PRES3 
GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 











